She wears her dress like scripture. Falling to my knees, I've got nothing to offer but let me feel something. I keep writing it down but the words don't stick. I fail to save the tree and those twigs are brushing against me like stones across the flesh. They may hurt me and so do words. So do birds fly or do I? Am I falling? It's all a matter of context and the ground seems to be swimming ablur and teeming with crocodiles. And insurance salesmen, and professionals, and all of them just killing time so nicely. Their hours all sequestered in a microphone booth so you can hear them eke away slowly yet not feel their grip. Removed and out of sight but heard nonetheless. I read up on you and there is no salvation, only blood tinted teal and pandering to my naivete. And you wear a mask like a wrestler. And you wrestle with something unseen. And yes, I suppose I do learn something from reading your eyes. But nothing of your body language. And nothing of your dress keeps me thinking. Only wondering; does this thing we call the world just spin because of our wants? Because of our fears? Aspiration and admiration aside, I love the way you sway and fall and get back up again. They wrote it down for a reason.
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