all_my_life ovenbird There’s nothing here but bitten moons, night sky strewn with nails, a phalanx of unsuspecting soles. Mountains pick at dawn’s dead cuticle as blood pools in the valley. There were days, you insist, where nothing felt strange at all. I can only imagine. Every day I’ve known has been surreal, like living inside an Ernst, everything green and leafy and sinister, brimming with teeth. I can’t see what’s coming, you say, as if this is unusual, as if you were once a prophet but have now lost the thread of the future. We can’t know, we can’t know, we can never know. But all this rain is bound to make something groan. 260907 what's it to you? who go blather from