I without being am more, that I slide being and I need one more day between Sunday and Monday to keep thinking about what we were, because my days are short and too sad some hours. Most, when the evening falls and you’re not in your seat. I’ll hunch the letters left in our tattoos around every corner, announcing that two parallel lines are ever to be gathered at one point as much effort we put into breaking tendons. This is how they hurt these afternoons in which I dive photographs from yesteryear reviving our carpet as if I didn’t have to pick it up in the middle of August or as if mosquitoes didn’t die from heating. By the way, the lizard lives on in the same hole in the yard.
