and_the_story_continues perfectly_chaotic There are people I am terrified of... doctors, dentists, friends, foes, those who appear confrontational. Most of all, however, I am afraid of myself. Afraid of what might be shown. Anxiety seeps in slow until it all seems to sink. The whole ship full of my foolish beliefs is swallowed whole. Turns out this Titanic smashes walls made out of ice, snow, steel. Steel of the words I steal from my mouth roll into a ball of knots and then I recall faces my eyes no longer see. Those of ones who leave or've been left. Gold, you are more precious than gold. Small moments of solitude swell, a result of refusal to regard the malignant moles, growths that seem to separate us all from what's seen and the real scene of that which we merely see. Dreams grow from a place which is real. Tales, tall from being written by many authors of the world. Fables upon fables, we know the story's the same but the text shall be in different fonts and the words of a copy unique, some new, others old, the same illustrations big and small, infinite tongues of translation of titles which hold meanings unknown. Trembles and tremors make me appall any thought of a look at the book of yours. Starchly scared of you. I know it may be silly, but it makes me stall. 110417 what's it to you? who go blather from