weave raze there was pain, episodic and dishwater dull, that lived on the lower lid of my left eye. for two days, i allowed myself to believe i was growing wiser. the intangible orb meant to manifest on my forehead had simply selected the wrong place to bloom. now nothing hurts above the neck, and whatever wisdom i've accrued is little more than an outgrowth of this grim and graceful dance that dents the dirt beneath my frosted feet. show me all the things you know, and we will weave a west coast swing. 260120 what's it to you? who go blather from