Will is a wish that your birth charges you with. There is a quartet of letters given to each generation, a formless trinket tossed around the human flame like some universal kumbaya that always had a face. We could learn a lot from where were aren’t if we let ourselves imagine it. Dreams of what it looks like when I poke out the eyes of my love. Nothing begging something, the body of a bonfire song. Is it not each flick of the tongue? Is it not a federation of sounds finally reaching accord? Hurt like hell to learn when I should stop asking questions.