defecit raze exhaustion bites into the beauty. tries to twist it into something awful. from this distance you can't discern the difference between cooing child and frightened animal. the wind blots out the battering ram of your voice. clouds conceal the flame that cooks all you hold dear. every night you tell yourself the same hopeful lie: maybe it'll be different this time. 230214 what's it to you? who go blather from