the quiet things we could shout across a dead wheat field, and the passenger intercepting those transmissions, wearing a motorised fox head, but still smoking, somehow. I laid underneath it an old picture of my hair across a pillow because I had been feeling it as if it could turn from dust paper into bugs or sand into windy tree leaves. when I leave anywhere I could weep but my interrobangs usually blindside the guts underneath. we are so polite. we only quake in bathrooms or fireplace lounges or spooned against the night with silk blankets falling away and your nails suffering at the anticipation of your cannibalism. if we go clickety-clack then we can't take shit back. so you eat it up. the quiet things you should let out.
A mixture of darks & lights in a cold wash cycle. True stories and true stories posing as fiction. Hope they don't bleed together and then shrink.
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