my friend is a cemetery.  his broken fingers are testaments to the boredom of wind.  do you write to yourself in prison?  your kid cannot scribble.  he tries and it makes him fierce.  I make heads or tails of him no matter.  your mother came to me in a bowling ball.  whispered about the dryer opening and out came a burning in your sister’s ear.  things are tense.  your father still cleans the sounds you make.