what finds us loosely in the madhouse with echoes and fuschia and bug grime marks time only less and more. it underscores my indiscretions but i wouldn’t use it for an alarm clock nor would i imbue it with my dreams – yours maybe. i always have thought of you as more dispensible. my dreams are the province of fruition or vinegar but let nothing go uncorked. i don’t care to compare to like things. it’s the metawhatfor that excites what i choose from the shadows to see. but enough of this talking about what i want you to think of; i intrude, and things are given to hell even if hell isn’t asking for it. there are many reasons to hide and even more reasons to be seen. i would never want to force more into you than you can lick your lips to and swallow. try a few hours as me before you give it up to something as significant as your own alone in the end. i shant opine. may i never opine again. when i finally opine that final miss let it be said i couldn’t see the target.
