in the home
Got that walking in on something feeling. Fields and awkward quiet sniffles. It's a welcome disguised as hate. The air moves around at different speeds and it's too cold one minute until the heat comes up and then it's just warm enough before it's too hot. The sweat bleeds through fast enough not to notice. Empty drives in the country dark make the young rustle under and over however many panic and whispers.
Who tells it to you that way that you listen?
It's the mother of all invention.
He's away in an alley on a bicycle somewhere. He's come back when he's good and ready.
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