Your hands were aching to type in the words of a tortured soul, salivating for the pleasure of sliding along clicking plastic and pushing, time in, time out. Where in the north sky can we find the cause of white fires wavering? Sleight of hand could beg me back from your doorstep,
from the sinister places known only to medieval clerics and scribes. On the fields, they marched two abreast, advancing and retreating in the rhythm of the greater subconscious.
I sought out the quieter places underwritten with a texture of theme and melody, the implications of that dancing at the funeral of one who was beloved, wondering
who has seen the irises swelling and languishing on your vitreous water, impaled by fingers that wandered into your thought, that penetrated, curled, and drew out what i could not mention and bled into something approaching meaningfulness
or the minimum requirement for saving your soul, with interest.