the_sound_of_rain raze i always felt a kinship — not with the sky, but what it held. a giant dog sits in your mouth, teeth tied to the terminus. (a hoodie on the road. i pick it up and eat it, still soft to the touch.) what is it about those closed hands on the table that can't decide what to see? we're just a few pages long. books not moved by the present, the finite. the right aspiration is not always comfortable. fan the flames, my blushing_bride. pull the ripcord to infinity. 250902 what's it to you? who go blather from