How many mistakes am I allowed today?
It’s how we start.
Virtue tallying with dense hands all around so LIT by halogen lamps.
Discovering red hair strands.
Was it that long ago? It wasn’t and you know it. You want to stretch time thin. Arrest your memories and place a giant ink blot over the canvas of your ******* “woe is me” think piece. Clementineian.
In that moment it’s not so interesting, and you find other things to talk about and words offered allow you to take the pulse of the situation.
Written on a whim, forged with adamantium ya ya ya.
Catapulting your empathy on the fly, playing catch-up with a thorn in my foot.