over_time raze i blasted every thought room until it bled perfect white. retreated to a dark place — a very insular space, pouring myself into the mouth of this capable metric. words litter the landscape like lanterns, like crumbs. what hands do in a time of true healing: leave us clothes for when we have to dress like crime. morning shouldn't be interrupted. it should be allowed to grow in its own time, like a very strong child. 250417 what's it to you? who go blather from