long perfectly still window out gaze.
light rain pain prairie grass grain.
"don't comb your hair, you're not going to be in the picture"
so. hoist the sails. ready the mast?
he draws symbols, daily, in the shower steam. new symbols. shapes I’ve never seen. like an ancient language slowly being revealed. perhaps we should ink them on golden tablets. and parade them down the road.
"saltiest bite you’ve had in your life."
chronology is not a delicate tool.