i'm thinking, now, that i could've stayed back and never learned how to exist.
or, maybe, there's still scope for that. an earnest bite of flared fishhook, two of those 45 degree mirrors that let submarines see all the way up to the surface.
whatever you do, don't imagine a white fenced-in yard with a swing-set and bruised knees and lemonade. whatever you do, don't be shaped by the people who brought you up.
imagine it with all sincerity in your inner monologue. imagine: a frail row of toothpicks across the maw and you are seven years old once more.
who knows? we are barely subatomic in the scheme of things.
I was weeping as much for him as her; we do sometimes pity creatures that have none of the feeling either for themselves or others. — Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights
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