literally--i was just thinking that. then everything went gray.
guitar, guitar, icarus, icarus. the cross i made burned. the bread was heavy.
“i don’t explain often or ever but i know, really. why did you name the syndrome after your city?”
the prefrosh look like giants. they haven’t been shrunk down yet. “their tiny hearts will get crushed. it’s a williams tradition. send them over to the jilted maiden aunts club.” familiarity forced me out of the haze of hatred. which one of these things is not like the others? so maybe she should transfer.
i want to grow a silver tail and slip through fluid without substance. i want to be as light as a dandelion stem and curl up between the pages of the complete works so you will slam it closed and crush me. then you could find me later (when it would matter more) preserved in this most perfect form.
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