It’s supposed to be 90 here, today, up on the edge of permafrost and endless winter.
Oh, I just saw you walking
Ice was reading fortunes by the moonlight
Casting runes on the rooftops and alleys
You’ll never read more than you will tonight
Crows come down to the birdbath, a murder of five; best look before you take that first step out the door. Hope might be a thing with feathers, but I don’t think mercy plays in there at all.
Gads! thesis statements and logical arguments in support of the theories of ecstatic art. Trapped, today and for the next three weeks, but I find myself staring at the modem cover and considering how it would fit into a mask.