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.

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