scrawls.

scrawls

still cheaper than therapy*

23.11.10

per second until

the sun is shining, now, in november. E asks if it is summer, points out the little white clouds, the big white clouds, moving fast against each other. I feel the wind in my hair, distantly, and i can hardly remember what it is to be cold. I feel like a great bear with the heart of a hummingbird, lost and found in the same moment. Flying time is glacial-still, running and notmoving, interminable, and i know, i know this will echo, i know this.

Labels: drama