half_asleep_poem_thirty_four raze my parents and i used to tell our stories as a cliff out of context. first they set me on fire. then they drank the flame. as the stink of its sound seeped into me, my mother spoke of possums and pity parties. she would probably hurt to say it's nothing. any chance she takes is a million questions. i'm just a rabbit eating snow. 230304 what's it to you? who go blather from