a_moment_before_becoming_unclear fyn gula i have so much i want to tell you and when i knock at your door, only your cats are at home, asleep on the top of the couch we once sat upon, slept together upon. a glass of pinot grigio, white as the silence of my confidence eroding rests on the table. not full. not empty, like a conversation we should have. like you wanted me, then decided not. 020911 what's it to you? who go blather from