The dry routing of ills through a premature summer day, whatever.
Writing an irrelevance; you are gone, I am expended. Finding escapology an unsatisfying mode of study, bought into the linked parallels, always finding it easy to hide behind rhetoric and ambiguity when
I have nothing to say
because I am occupied, there is a living to be had, and the rites of spring, pagan heralding, looking for insects, the shadows of fame, last summer’s grief, positivity through action, sent message, worried that you knew who knew that I knew that you know, torn up and nauseous from all the thinking, double bluff, jeopardising the want and once this becomes a habit what do I have left?
Meet you there.