"singularly" poems
**Mastering the whole range of bleats with meanings-
made him think his command of 'goat lingo' was perfect,
But a cheeky Anglo-Nubian goat wasn't impressed by his fluency so remarkable,
"Vocabulary is not all, my dear Sir" she bleated back " your accent is singularly atrocious"**
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 12:35 PM UTC
They say they love you.
And they care about you.
And that theyre there for you.
And. Thats supposed to feel good. Its supposed to feel nice.
Be nice.
But honestly.
It just makes me feel nervous.
Uneasy.
Apprehension and suspicion grip me.
They shake me.
And yet at the same time, mostly,
I feel apathy.
Nothing
As if your words were as grains of sand to my beach.
As if they were the folds of some drapery
That i depicted in my sketching class.
Singularly, it is so insignificance to me.
And maybe thats where im going wrong. Looking for beauty and solidity in pebbles and ripples.
It all. Means something. Everything. But.
It all means nothing.
Theyre just words.
And whos to say youre even real.
Wait.
Am i even real.
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 2:28 AM UTC
descendants of those left behind,
they found fellowship with
a singularly brutal environment,
free roaming meanderers
of a crepuscular exclusion zone,
having trekked into
the camps of liquidators
to beg for scraps,
they nosed into empty buildings
and found safe places to sleep,
stopping at Café Desyatka
for some borscht,
the guides speak only of
visitor or occupant,
there are no tourists here,
only the genetically distinct
Mar 13, 2023
Mar 13, 2023 at 10:05 AM UTC
“the pleasuring words”
~
are not of necessity singularly complected or of one nature
know them by many other names, colorations, languages,
throat growling purring, pretty soft and stern, singsong,
begged borrowed stolen, barked and pleaded
but when the eyes quietly say,
come to me
darling
in manner unspoken,
the pleasuring of the silence
greater than if sullied by a vocalization,
the wild sounds my heart commit
pounding mounting ever louder,
requiring no translation, though with repetition,
they grow louder
with every heart throbbing,
a new language relearning
the pleasuring words are spoken
by silent eyes when you
call me by my other name
my
darling
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 12:10 PM UTC
There is a Professor Robbie,
who has a calculating hobby;
He delights in asking his pets,
with multiple inherent defects,
or not too brainy, to be exact.
If 2n is more or less than 2-n,
and 3x is same as 3 men, then,
the study of maths be banned.
With that Robbie will surely object,
for he makes a living on the subject;
He takes not too kindly our slow wit,
and chips away our esteem, digit-by-digit.
Equations after equations, he blast,
until one brave pet, at long last,
who sees more value in a candy bar,
than juggling numbers to solve algebra.
So Robbie, will you be ever so kindly,
spare the aging cells of these cuties,
singularly or simultaneously.
So loose no healthy slumber,
by chasing after prime-numbers;
And we who have trouble with dy or dx,
well, there is always graphic ***
If you think this -- dX+2(x^2 - x*y^2)dy=0 -- is cool,
to make idiots out of fools,
do not be easily trapped,
into giving polite claps;
or stare at them with awe,
for they are nothing more,
than saying pluses can turn into minuses,
and at times even used as voodoo curses.
But Robbie will still caress them tenderly,
like they are his little babies,
annoying different people, differentially.
Dec 29, 2010
Dec 29, 2010 at 3:12 AM UTC
I sometimes sit and think about how I wouldn't mind if the world ended
I know its wrong of me to say that at face value, but deep down inside I know we all think it
not that the earth itself should be destroyed into oblivion, but the opposite
that the world should live on
and the cancerous growth of humanity should be cured
its a pessimistic way of looking at things , I know, but I cant help but feel this
short ride of ours on this planet is careening out of control
I'm not a nihilist or an anarchist or an environmentalist
nor a ********* for that matter
I'm not afraid to die because I believe I will no longer exist when I do
but the pointlessness of it all and the blatant disregard for others,
other species other lives other kinds other minds
disregard for the future for cleanliness leads me to these thoughts,
that a septic surplus has arisen on this singularly magnificent gift
of life in this one and only known universe and we sit here ******** all over it...
I sometimes think it'd be best if we all just left
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 8:51 PM UTC
Science is governed by theorems and laws, but I think its more important to learn, live, and love from nature’s flaws. Ideal reactions exist on paper created by pencils, but really its nothing more than a flawed man’s stencil. Something unable to exist in freeform untempered by the creative storm and unblemished by the perfect mistakes that prove its not fake. Thats not of what I partake.
You make my world spin and keep my gravity down. It’s just the physics of our situation, is this our mind or the worlds creation? Einstein was the founder of relativity but I’m sure of our brevity. A whirlwind thats almost out of control, the dance of days that composes our souls. Linked rhythmically together no longer singularly apart joined at the heart never to depart and so we start. I’m not sure how this equation functions but its a positive conjunction. I want to linearly progress without regress never to suppress or obsess but to travel and caress but I digress with my interest to express.
I haven’t done the math but I’m almost positive one heart plus one heart equals one heart. Thats real arithmetic, a force surely kinetic. Attracted and reacted to form a singular product of an environment construct. You make my world spin and keep my gravity down. It’s just the physics of our situation.
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 10:19 PM UTC
I woke up very early this morning, restless and bothered, itchy for the day to happen. As dawn broke orange, the city was revealed. I’ll never get tired of watching that. The snow was gone but a gloss over the city streets indicated ice. I scanned the landscape for movement - for life - like a predator.
Lisa and I are headed back to school today, at 11am, by air, which our parents feel is the best way to avoid our old, holiday nemesis omicron (doesn’t that make us sound like secret agents?).
Once everyone was finally up, Lisa and I got our busy-on, doing the last load of laundry and final packing. Lisa, packs a suitcase, by throwing clothes in without bothering to fold them, while I meticulously fold and roll my clothes, like a marine headed for deployment.
As Lisa and I worked, Leeza (12) was lying on Lisa’s bed, on her back with her head hanging over the edge - watching us pack upside down. Her red hair looked like a thrown plate of spaghetti.
Leeza was talk, talk, talking and gnawing on a toasted bagel at the same time. “How do you feel about going back to school?” she asked us. “OH, feelings!” I gasped, “A free therapy session!” “No, really,” she said, grown serious and rolling right side up.
Leeza is cute as a button and vulnerable - I could almost feel her anxiety. As the youngest sibling I’d been left behind too - you don’t want the holiday to end and your big sister to leave - it’s a singularly lonesome feeling. I wanted to grab her, like a puppy, wrestle her and tell her I love her and I’d miss her - like my sister used to do with me. I decided that as soon as we were done packing, I would.
“My GOD,” Lisa said to Leeza, “will you PLEASE shut up! I have to think.” Leeza blushed and shrugged “I’m just making conversation, grump-face, you’ve packed a million times before haven’t you?” “Does counting to 10 make ****** premeditated?” Lisa asked the ceiling.
Suddenly, Lisa dropped the blouse she’d been holding and pounced on Leeza, tickling her as she squealed with delight. In a second they’d become a ball of flailing arms, legs, hair and playful noise. I slunk out of the room to give them their sister’s goodbye.
Besides, I smelled bacon.
Jan 14, 2022
Jan 14, 2022 at 9:19 AM UTC
Pleat, pleat, pleat,
Fix that drape,
Cantankerous petticoat,
Is all bent out of shape,
The mirror jeers,
That's a singularly inelegant drape,
What are you gawping at,
It's time to undrape,
Watch those ankles,
Stop dancing like an ape,
How hard could it be,
To simply undrape,
In walked Mum,
Her mouth agape,
Laughing uproariously,
Got me shipshape
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 5:48 AM UTC
We found a new world,
yesterday.
Ordained with holy numbers
and d-a-s-h-e-s-
by modern priests in
blanket
white
cloth.
Pious, singularly
unromantic men.
Reaching for this sphere
it is into an unnamed sea
amid unmounted peaks
I shall fall,
a willfully disobedient
boy who drowned
with a hunger
that surpassed
all worldly sustenance.
Though perhaps it’s for the best
I’ll never walk its corrugated
G a s e o u s
surface,
for an epoch of chastity
would be corrupt
by my abrasive soles, my cutting
words, my fallible conscience
and mortal skin.
600 light-years?
I’ll save us both the effort.
©Thomas Gabriel
Dec 6, 2011
Dec 6, 2011 at 12:43 PM UTC
hapax legomenon “Texas Women”
**(hapax legomenon: a term of which only one instance of use is ever recorded)
(Texas Women: a term of which only one instance of use is ever recorded)**
for
ꏳJ LꂦVꏂ & Cne’
once again, they sweet sweep me off my feet,
carry me to the Court of Finger Wagging,
to be accused of hating and/or loving Texas Women
simultaneously, diffidently, consequentially, unclearly differentially
this is no flower picking exercise, shaking of the head,
“he loves me, he loves me not,” rinse and repeat,
a northern trick to confuse the plano truth,
warns the Judicial Triumvirate
your Honors, I swears,
never wrote those conjunctive words,
Texas, Women,
never ever, until just now,
a genuine hapax legomenon
akin to taking god’s name in vain,
if one dare ever utter these words, and
blows the opportunity,
well, shotgun, if you know what I mean,
one gets only
one chance
so cut me quick to the chase’s conclusion
let’s go to my defense single & singularly:
true, of women I have written, and
“too much,”
is a mere theortical constriction
I love to love women,
and a 57 variety pak is a-ok by me
an inordinate number of poems may have referenced
females hailing from a certain great state,
but never together, side by side, have I ever employed
that phrase, for my imaginations
are more than sufficient
have loved women from many places, too many faces,
some beyond measure, now a forever,
a hoarded memoir unpublishable treasure,
some, it’s true, possessed jeans and a cowboy hat,
and dangerous boots, which one admired from a
goodly distance
they brook no con, tilting their heads quizzically,
there is no maybe with women from this place,
maybe you love us, maybe not, but either way,
there ain’t no maybe in our emotional lexicology!
ok.
the only woman I ever hated is dead and buried,
and yes, I shot her dead for being ornery cactus mean,
so by this roundabout roundup summation,
you may put your head on pillow tonight,
smiling confident thinking that your hapax legomenon,
is deep in the heart of a grown boy hailing from nyc,
still a crazy straight shooter
Jul 11, 2019
Jul 11, 2019 at 1:22 PM UTC
I love you as a deer loves the embrace of sun-dappled groves,
An oak the earth, a robin the nesting crooks of leafy branches.
This love comes naturally.
You keep me grounded, and give me a home in which I am free to grow, entangled in you.
I love you as an eagle loves the lifting currents of the wind,
A dolphin the waves, the tides the pull of the circling moon.
This love comes naturally.
You give me strength, the courage to strive to be a better person, not tomorrow, but today.
I love you like a lion’s roar echoing across the savanna,
A moonlit kiss, Olympian gold glittering in the eyes of a cheering crowd.
This love come naturally.
You awaken my passion, stir my hearts’ depths unlocking feelings I’d never knew existed, till now.
I love you like no one I have loved before,
And for reasons singularly different
Than I will ever love again.
You are my rock, my muse, my fire.
I have never loved anyone
So naturally.
Jun 21, 2017
Jun 21, 2017 at 9:10 AM UTC
Just in my Reach
I've lost my Speech!
and to you I add
May I beseech?
That you may stay,
Within my site
all through the Night,
Into the Day
Inside of darkness
and the light
Perhaps together, find a way
always more and never less
I think about your warm caress!
I feel elated,
and concentrated
beyond what I may
have contemplated,
or created
this sublime hiatus!
I think of you constantly
wait with you patiently
ode to you
Singularly.
Feb 1, 2012
Feb 1, 2012 at 8:22 PM UTC
You’ve heard of us, I’m sure. We’ve been corrupting the living since life was old enough to be corrupt.
We are why humans scrub, rinse, wash up, wipe down, and die.
At first, we were just travelers. Useless wanderers floating through space and content with having no purpose at all.
Until one of us bumped into, and sunk into, something with a dangerous potential. Something intricate with all sorts of systems that would soon be tainted with this single bump.
It was nice, I guess the first one might have thought, To feel more important than this thing with all of the potential in the world. To corrupt it.
Not all of us damage humans for the sport of it, like Arenavirus Infection, Fibromyalgia, Cryptococcosis, Tuberculosis, Cancer, and many others do.
Some are just afraid of humans. They attack them because they are afraid of the medicines they create, which doesn’t make any sense because in doing this they singularly are more likely to be killed.
Most do enjoy making peoples ill.
The more competitive ones have made rules.
Alright, they’d say, Next one to swim in this lake will catch me.
If they aren’t wearing a coat, and it is below sixty degrees Fahrenheit, their defenses are down and they deserve us.
Well, they shouldn’t be so vain as to purposefully tan their skin.
More points to whoever claims the one with the feeble immune system.
I however, do not feel that it is necessary to attack the humans. We are, after all, supposed to be wanderers.
I am Influenza. I wholly, have killed or touched millions of humans.
I singularly, as .253667IFL, have never touched any object at all and probably won’t for thousands of years to come.
And while I have made this decision and while I don’t believe that it is necessary to attack humans and while I have the potential to, I do not feel sympathy toward the humans.
It is not because I am unlike them, in fact it’s just the opposite.
If there is anything Earth’s Illnesses can agree on, it is something that we have all learned in our travels:
That it is impossible for one to pity something that shares the same potential as them.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 1:14 PM UTC
I've read the news, and it's red
with painted lip prints, and the stain
of stranger thumbprints. They're not
mine. Neither of them. They belong,
lip and thumb, paint and stranger,
singularly to those others who don't
read or write such things. They may
bleed, them, but the blood isn't red,
or crimson, or cardinal, or scarlet.
Pick a shade of red, and it isn't that,
at least not until it's too, too late
to stanch. The bully's standard is to take
it all, all of it except the fall crisp that led
into this strangely warmer winter. I took it,
and I saved it in my bones to prepare,
but the cold didn't come. Not like we
were used to. I'm told the bully wears
what he takes with a dashing style. See it,
that royal blue that outfits him? The flowing
robes? The gold. I've been robbed. We have
been. Not of things, but of a view. A view
with no room for us in its downside-up
very periscope-unlike perspective.
There's no upside to the up-down
and just around the corner trips
I take. To the grocer. To the bar. To
the five and dime. It's fattened up
to a dollar. And the slimming newsprint
costs more than what I get
without the paper. I don't
get it, not the print, not the paper, not
the red lip prints, not the thumbprints
left by strangers, not the news
I've read and I'm reading.
Jun 10, 2012
Jun 10, 2012 at 6:25 PM UTC
*from now on,
all poems will,
that yet reside inside,
shall be here inscribed
why?
the line between music, song, lustrous life and love is indifferent
do not misunderstand - indifferent is not meant as uncaring but more as undifferentiated and interwoven into a singularly
so oft lives de-track, de-tract as threads become frayed and
the dye color fades, but once loved, cold is an excised word
from life’s Merriam Webster rulebook
in all my pain and sadness the embrued, embered kernel
yet faint glows
off and on, even a glance somehow brings it back, for of all
life’s lessons learned in everything, loss and grief,
the single thread snakes back, and there is love in everything
and in every unborn scream and script
so a journey ends and commences
in the same locus and locale,
the quest;
search and seek that love seed*
for there is only love poetry
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 12:55 PM UTC
Within the realm of unplayed instrumentation
a crescendo of specific notes are lost
dangling on high maple branches during autumn leaf change
and only divots below the mowed through grassy soil
throughout segregated quarantine reserves
partitions of divorced land
In the bottom of a child’s backpack
so heart jarring and singularly dedicated to the wandering dreamer harboring any thoughts of doubt about what is and what might inhibit the coming up next
covering over wooden plank necks with strings of primitive notation drafted inside the woods create,
rows of ivory keys and ebony flats,
this includes either screeching or murmuring brass buttons can make
And depending on the blow
Lead based letters
Squeezed together grammar and prose
have no window to grandstand
in a duel verses this one climb of instrumental verse
these missing tones are in tangible reaches
could even be in a soft mother’s dream waiting to be awoken to bring an awakening
Who will seek and find this group of lost tones with striking nuances so spirit soothing
that seeing the mere future is old news
but instilling, feeling, and describing the true meaning of life after hearing what is under, inside and above this crest of colored resonance of tonal pitch...
Or maybe it can insight a minor confidence in the one who lacks it to take that small step forward
Ensuring another step
This is one who will hear this
Jun 19, 2019
Jun 19, 2019 at 11:46 PM UTC
1.
I never saw you on the day you were born
I wasn't there.
I never met you in your youth
I wasn't there.
I probably won't see you on your last day
I know not how the current will carry tidings.
2.
Yet, I never saw such life in anyone's eyes
As I see in you.
I never felt such intense flow in a pure heart
As I do in you.
There is no way to fully express
How happy I am with the milk of your kindness.
All I want, is to ride that carriage with you
And drink of love's potion, keep you sated.
3.
Come, take my hand and let me hold you
Don't you crowd us out so; allow to breathe
Our universe expands as enchanting melodies, we share
Shut-tight eyes leave a crazy stab of an afterimage.
Upon the tracks, lies the truth in broken pieces
Time to gather my singularly talentless wits
Recuperate from rhythmic clacking of euphoria
A drab shoelace in flat, brown mud, is how you see me.
There's a part of my journey that includes you
An integral part of my existence seeks that spark
I have seen you, without yet seeing you!
How can I know that failure dogs not this adventure...
Can you really not see how extraordinary this is?
It may count as fiasco if absent pursuit of mysterious core...
4.
Without you, I'd be on an express train to nowhere.
At least, you're still there
(alive :)
S T, 3 May 2013
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 5:38 AM UTC
The Walk
I got red clay and grass on my feet today in the land of the Navaho it seemed I channeled one of their
Braves it seemed my eyes grew stronger the buttes and mesas the southwest had on familiar adoring that
flows with a fluidity in the driest land yet still the streaming it breaks free and flows down to the
Valley then it arrests the high distant peaks like your eyes become the bow shooting at the target straight
And true with speed it passes stationary objects it brings them to intensified life they are passed in a whirl
No longer are they so fixed as they were nothing now they enliven my heart it beats faster with the joy they
Possess magic it lies in depths of tree and scrub it appears as a wild and crazed painter of the caliber of
Van Gogh started at a certain point definitely he favored red as his base color then with differing shades
Of green he cloaked this thermal world it would be uniquely different a somber invitation to a feast at first
Glance seemingly a hard pronounced edge but a people with dark red to brown skin walked into this
World they put the finish to perfect with indigo as their primary color of dress what living moods now
Stand out against the red terrain singularly or as a tribe they clashed with this scenic land earth and sky
Had a joining place among a people that were formable there power they were educated not by
Scholarly universities but by rock streams trees and from creatures that learned to survive in a hostile
Environment it’s interesting to note that one of our most robust presidents an easterner when his wife
And mother died within days of one another Teddy Roosevelt chose the west as the place to seek
Healing for his devastated life the rest of his life is a pretty good testament to this place and it’s curative
Powers not bad for a rocky dry land thought by most to be worthless just an observation of one whom
Walked in the paths of a rich diverse and proud people I think my Cherokee grandmother would be
Proud she always talked about where we would go she took a detour and went to heaven instead in the
Meantime I will do the earth side adventures for the both of us
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 7:40 PM UTC
It is in, the how,
not the why, the where,
or, the when,
no, no, it
Is the how,
that provisions and provides
all the answers
that any lover needs, for
In the how, one revels,
but also,
unbeknownst, unwillingly, reveals
what one's heart wishes to secret, and conceals
and with
The single stroke
of a single finger,
lightly across thy cheek,
raising sky colors upon
thy skin's patina and,
How commences the matina,
with petals of white cloud roses,
blushing anew in your cheeks,
loveliest of failed cover ups,
laughing, I airbrush your
almost, invisible tears away,
residue of melodramas of troubled sleep,
stilled and stolen, mine,
to pacify, keep,
tranquilized in my breast
It, Is In, The How,
What, You Are Thinking.
What vincible arrogance
humans possess when we pray,
we hope, knowing that we are infidels,
hoping to mislead
the eyes that glance upon us
You give up the shadows painted for me when
filtered beams, rays of
a, and of...kind,
lance shield of densest lead,
lain upon the chest to cloak
the tremors of volcanic hearts,
the eyes of hurricane thoughts,
containers of need that
Are so full of oh so
many questions, yet,
singularly resolved,
with the answer of
a single stroke,
of a single finger,
lightly across thy cheek,
knowingly full well you are
Thinking there is no exit,
no right of way to negate
the sum of what we let to ail us,
O disbeliever, how simple be,
for all, all of
It, Is In, The How,
What, You Are Thinking,
I soften and modulate,
your conflicted complexion,
with the answer of
a single stroke,
of a single finger,
lightly across thy cheek,
all that is mine,
to encapsulate,
recharge, refill thy vessel
with Bocelli tones of
passioned, gloried harmony
Worry not if my eyesight dims,
be unconcerned if
my hearing, my voices
wearies and weakens,
for all the answers
we shall ever need
remain, contained in
a single stroke,
of a single finger,
lightly across thy cheek,
and
this is how I know now,
and forever more,
what you are thinking
As long as skin is the coverlet
o'er the bell jar of mind n' heart,
as long oxygen defies gravity,
I will know how,
unveil, open secret chambers,
now and forever more,
what you are thinking
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 10:53 PM UTC
psychic infantile bopping
play silent drum kits in ear canals.
screeching like whales
in caverns of sea and stalagmites.
servantile shrapnel leaking into abyss:
feeding on skin and bones,
parasitically.
eating through biting cries,
viciously.
gumdrops streaking sidewalk
in musical rhythm stain glass windows
and blurry red eyed sun high in the sky
shines down crystalline tear drops
over your singularly secular shadow.
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 3:45 AM UTC
We all have something singularly unsayable within. Nothing can or will ever get to it, not even other souls. This is the loneliness we were all born with and this is our only salvation.
Sep 1, 2021
Sep 1, 2021 at 3:01 AM UTC
We were on the phone when you said it,
the proverbial observation that time
speeds up and slows down depending on the activity.
It is believed that summer vacations go by
in the millisecond it takes to blink.
By that measure then seasons could change
in the months spent at a dentist’s office,
if a baby is born in the morning
his parents will find him middle aged by the six o’clock news,
and you will surely go gray in the centuries
it takes to file your taxes.
It was then that I remembered the way you looked
last night, your very own contradiction.
You lay there defying the familiar axiom,
a little god on a downy throne,
the sun awaiting the command perched
vigilantly on your softly parted lips.
With each breath clocks fell motionless around us,
hourglass sands poured out singularly
like the carefully rationed drops of a leaky faucet.
I watched as you slept there, entire eons passing
with each rise of your chest, small forevers in each fall.
In that moment there was no history,
no sound beyond the simple sighs that escaped you,
each an iron cable fastening me tighter
to you in this seamless moment, no light
except the dimming flicker of the last stars in existence.
I watched time not tick, but slide
and curve over the gentle dip of your elbow,
sit cross-legged sipping tea around
the perimeter of your navel, play cards
on the smooth musculature of your sturdy calf.
It is this image of you that now pulls me
from my newspaper crossword, makes me
rest my spoon back down in my half-eaten cereal,
and has me relive each brief infinity
before finishing my orange juice.
May 30, 2011
May 30, 2011 at 4:32 PM UTC
I’ve read the news, and its red
with painted lip prints, and the stain
of stranger thumb prints. They’re not
mine. Neither of them. They belong,
lip and thumb, paint and stranger,
singularly to those others who don’t
read or write such things. They may
bleed them, but the blood isn’t red,
or crimson, or cardinal, or scarlet.
Pick a shade of red, and it isn’t that,
at least not until it’s too, too late
to stanch. The bully’s standard is to take
it all, all of it except the fall crisp that led
into this strangely warmer winter. I took it,
and I saved it in my bones to prepare,
but the cold didn’t come. Not like we
were used to. I’m told the bully wears
what he takes with a dashing style. See it,
that royal blue that outfits him? The flowing
robes? The gold. I’ve been robbed. We have
been. Not of things, but of a view. A view
with no room for us in its downside-up
very periscope-unlike perspective.
There’s no upside to the up-down
and just around the corner trips
I take. To the grocer. To the bar. To
the five and dime. It’s fattened up
to a dollar. And the slimming newsprint
costs more than what I get
without the print. I don’t
get it, not the print, not the paper, not
the red lip prints, not the thumbprints
left by strangers, not the news
I’ve read and I’m reading.
Feb 16, 2012
Feb 16, 2012 at 8:11 PM UTC