A doctor, a dodge, a fulcrum: all these and radiant choirs overstepping viscous marshes where onward flows the march of time. Or lately, the fading seizes a new set of nouns.
Cheerful rejoinder seethes in the panic of another partly closed door. These are people, in our neighbourhood and drama. And these are friends, or else.
That sense of family that doesn’t quite work instills this native tongue-lashing. There was a disappointment to be gained, and a newsworthy loss, more or less. The more would be a staining that could apply. The less would be a node left behind
What arches over the testy remains of this juncture but the spotted title of leaving? We are turned around in emphasis, and feel hurt by little shards placed indiscreetly into our skin.
We have no time to care for having the time to care. We have been hurt by a leveling and the income of expanse. Humans are just the way they are, reporting their wages in rapt gaming, and still need a hug. Few hugs can be saved in this climate; the weather of politics wears us down.
When books end, a space opens. This is not to tease us, we have work to do. The human complement attains its mar, studiously vying for an effective resumption
No one wants to stay within that boundary, we all want to resist. Resistance is verbal, most times. We feel a loss, like a family. It can happen to anyone, not just our own falling tone.
The doctor is increment in some ladder effect. The dodge is extremes taken for function. A fulcrum is our basis, which we should honour with the name of our friends. The rest is a sentence, which hangs over our heads.