Seemingly bereft, beleaguered, with anger from the outset. Enough with the saints to bring out the dead with their stiff and bandaged fingers, their popped and erudescent flanges. Concubine, ursine. I am the all told among the different ones below your feet, the worms that turn the Earth for no good reason other than that's what they know how to do. Went to college to properly turn the Earth below us and around us. That's why we aren't floating off into space, why we have days, because the worms keep the world turning.
But that is only one part of the multiplying occupation that is fey beyond comparison. We sit in our chairs and contemplate another sort of life while others and I are among the con--
Oh my God. I have no idea how to write anymore. Is this a limbo period where all within my style changes? I don't want to just use big words, but, at the same time, I don't know where to go when the rhythm sags off below the echelon--
nippted figures below our waist, tugging at our hearts to find the last one. I am your own found among the finders. Come away with me to find a new dawn, I think that's what we're supposed to do. I'm no longer sure what is red. I'm no longer sure how to think about you--
I think I'm losing it.... It it it. The motive, the passion, the complacency. The killing I am among the rushes. Don't lose it. Always keep a little in reserve. You'll know it because you'll feel it--where the nerves and the sinews end and my relationship with you begins. Darling. Among the amazed I am yours for all time.
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