nascent raze how many thoughts have died in the maw of my mind, devoured by more urgent ideas before they could shape themselves into something worth saving? it's always the beautiful ones, struggling to be born, that wrap the cord connecting embryo to fountainhead around their necks, mistaking the wet warmth of incipient dawn for a day done and dusted. i bury them all where i know they'll never be found. 251202 what's it to you? who go blather from