to the colouring book and the maddening imagination the insistence of the scribes and the glandular power of our missions of the dome and the species the turn of the trickster and the business being within our clan in our hand in the span of our grind a product of our natters is there shared scheme in mind ?
Placid comfort your hand gives to mine; a frigid world we have to call home and while this link can hasten up time, my heart calls out, "don't keep me alone"
My hand writes when it is sleepy, Though my pin prickled pal pays me no tithe, The static sound feel of my arm, Removes itself from me, Granting formerly unprecedented agency, Between my brain and my limb, With me left the unhappy spectator
