My body walks as a structure without warmth I think. When I believe in the alignment of my fingerprints falling into the ridges of someone elses I am limitlessly stretching my tongue towards honey that oozes from a wasps nest. Like I have written contracts to myself telling the will of my dead youthfulness to walk about a shell of contact exclusive to fantasy and the shrillbutsometimesbeautifulsweepingnatureof the airs. Foreign as to the liquid crystalline cores of moons or the way cracks in the sidewalk look or just things that no person could possibly connotate to the fiber of flesh is what this explosion of flesh is like to my dear head and hand. There’s a certain dread in these thoughts of how those around me slide and push their actions into a rhythm that is like an elevator song to them or less a song but an apple perhaps or small stick or something so expectedly engrained in what canbe attained. To loose my assurance at a market amidst the ones I felt closest has been grating to my everyaspect. To my aspects I felt towards who now lie in fine strips that crumple when stepped on and dessicate in water; who stayed very strong during it’s time, but now leaves me into doubt.