you flutter, but you're still in every aspect of this creviced existence. it may be best to act as decoration in a decorative world, the prettiest are always happiest, the ones who feel exalt or cry in creation will even- tually turn numb, or ice-cubes for pink margaritas, or reproductions on cascade walls of white-picket dwellings in a trajectory of white and beige houses like a ***** line of *******. pain is temporary. numbness is forever when it shoots for the brain and not the stars, when overcast skies become the reason for inner-living and streets are scary and trees are mere necessity for your breaths to filter, for your chest to flutter as it does, as it so surely and unabashedly does. you flutter, but you're as still as decoration.