Words in a Jar Held Close to the Light
A dream whispered to the sky in secret
I wrote this with a pen that’s lived in ten million landfills. Those are alternate reality stories, alternate moments on alternate timelines. Clear crystalline examples of what would happen if I wasn’t holding it in my hands in this here and now.
I typed this with hands that bled in fifteen different ways. That’s just pure fiction till the knife fight starts and the webs between my fingers drip red. Pacifism has a downside but give me your energy and I’ll return the favor.
That’s not a follow-for-follow solicitation even though my shoulders are strong enough for all ya’ll bluebirds who give a shit.
Think of it as compost; think of this as a question.
Do you really need more money than heartbeats in a lifetime?
A terrible metric if you add the value of sloping light through light-colored curtains, sunrise with a lover who holds your heart in gentle hands.
I say all this as if it’s my job to impart wisdom but it’s not. I’m just a steam engine with a leaky valve, an old wheel rounded into a perfect square. A stopped clock with glass gears forged from sand homegrown on Mars.
