Tan bird on a moonlit knife, scrounging for what seems like confidence or at least a shillelagh to the scapular. Fiddle faddle addles paddle rattles with a temper-mounting groin strategy. Blistering topology steps on a wounded grape, howling towards nothing in specific, tunneling through yankee skulls.
Heather squelching underfoot, we feel bound to our destination, knowing full well it’s spur of the moment. “To the octagonal pumpkin” we staccato through paper bags, this October much drier than usual. The tendency seems to be that of corn flakes crunching their torturers, gaining temporary power.
Every year gives the tenth month 31 days, a chance to bleed infamy, only to sum up with princess-themed classrooms. I’ve always wished that fate were less cruel to the vast majority of the world’s struggling wanderers.
I’ve taken 1,515 steps today, possibly 1,516, walking in place up against the squishy wall.
I really wish I could use my arms.
WHARVED 