Fieldwizards and firetops. Wobblybirds on snowflowers. Chilled milk and chowder for the little prince. Mothercake for mumbled thanks.

may be too onerous a task for those not starving. lucky

every story, especially those promising finally to grant the square hat with tassels, is a load of shit. the god which

god is unwelcome in suburbia, the cells are too comfortable there, & love rests best under stars.

liking to say things, all kinds of things, mostly about the way things seem

i could not conceive of such beauty, it had to hit me like it has. nothing

something you need makes you its bitch, yes even as it isn’t coming, no when love stands you up & all the more sweet

simply knowing you’re in a maze doesn’t get you out, but the fact is the foundation

excuse me, i thought you were also the center of a fractal

being drawn back unlike a bowstring but down and in as water finds the lowest

the very idea that i could be

was all stupid. you weren’t that entertaining. i find it all only sad now, that