Intricate plotting isn’t my style. Vast and evasive is closer to the bone.
How fast and far we’ve come from peace, only to find it here again.
Rootswept Magdalena, fly, such an airborne girl, tied vivid into the ground, still. Listen there, she’s enveloping words with her tongue to spit out soon like a saturated postage stamp. Rootswoven. It’s too much to bear. How can anyone bear living, to feel the worl pass through the heart and body, it’s extraordinary and spinning. Why are we not drunk and dancing all the time with this blood and water in smooth flows and shocklets running through us? My lips mumble between the silences that I fill with breath.
The house smells like kimchee, and it’s almost sweet and home-like when it’s slightly faded.
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