i’m feeling kind of a little e. e. cummings-esque today. when i awoke, i wrote thus on a piece of paper:
the lamentation of a housecat spills through my otherwise still room. still but for shine or shadow of the sun, played upon by clouds like a light blossom, now opened, now closing. in a dream my hair was silver. like the moon melted while i dreamt, and poured in liquid light.