worn raze the books we've been since birth are wearing thin. covers cracked and crumbling. spines coiled into colourless question marks. you stand on the headland, thin gut-strung stick of animal skin between your fingers, capo biting down on the fifth fret, and set your voice to skate across the nearest hem of skyline while the river roils beneath your feet. "i love you, i love you, i love you," you sing. this is not a hollow hymn. this is everything worth saving in a world that's lost its sense of wonder. these are the only words that won't wear away when all the ink fades from the postscript of our lives. 251101 what's it to you? who go blather from