hemlines reversed, quick tongues lined with a reverberating mind:
terse respect for growing mime-ful of dissenting degrees of distress
and helping his hands would only result in being undone, undone,
over and over sarcasm-sand dunes and I fall into ridiculing his rhumes:
"I have a cough due to cold, girl! Will you talk to my mom for me?"
your sincerity reeks, plainly; and my shrill & garrish yelps when the
television starts on about yarrow and dreaming and daisy-beading
will certainly keep you in a more John Locke than a Franklin mood
and even if I sit a stadium away, we both know that just won't do.
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