In my mind’s eye

In my mind’s eye I stand gangly tall, with a slight width to my hips.

In my mind’s eye, I take to water like a dived-in otter, I crinkle my hairy nose and shake my bottom ever so slightly.

In my mind’s eye, there is a blue jay at the corner of my vision.

In my mind’s eye, I am standing beside Douglas Adams when he is posing as Arthur Dent while lying stone drunk on a smelly heap of hay.

I can eat an entire steak, and not just with my eyes. I can hike mountains with a old branch for a walking stick.

In my mind’s eye, I could be the student’s mind in Florence. I can see what I look like to an old Victorian lamp.

In my mind’s eye, I sit on the edge of the vibration of music on the walls of my heart. I feel my uterine walls stocking up.

In my mind’s eye, my love for my unborn child scares me sleepless, so much that I dare not do that.

In my mind’s eye I’m gullible.

Everyone is either collectively smarter, or dumber than I am.

In my mind’s eye, I can feel the hot frying on potato skin.

In my mind’s eye I am soft inside, and softer outside.

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