Because this is a dead language that I cannot write you my thoughts.
This place so old and grey, sad, forgotten. And spring rain stings like Autumn. A thousand miles ago.
To Dream is where all my shadows hide. Who are we now? Lost children on the beach. On the beach I stoked the embers, piled on driftwood. I went down to the ocean and asked, Do you still love me? And the ocean said No, I no longer love you. (This is true I am not being metaphoric.)
It becomes to me that I am bipolar. Only this morning, write Joy, and then: those chemicals in my brain-sea-soup do a dance-flop and Here we grope to justify sadness.
(Because a thousand miles ago I--)
and, (Fall steeps in the air like Indian tea and--)
Cold and rain. Cold and rain. Rain and grey and cold and rain. One thousand miles ago it was summer in Pennsylvania and the fireflies danced on Butler Street. Everything is years away. Look at your words shatter like glass flowers. Shine a light: Are there any rainbows? Remember what the wiser people say about forgetting. Remember to be gentle. Be kind and go to sleep.
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