(All writing published here is owned by me unless cited otherwise.)
Can’t call people people because they aren’t that. They are chairs. They are clouds and caves and they are bird-beaks. They are bed posts, they are wine bottles, they are rat-tails, they are fish-hooks, they are grey canvases and oatmeal spoons. They are not boys, they are not girls. They are far-away places you can only vaugely see through a haze and across a deep blue bay, their lights glowing or bleary as their shades of romance fluctuate. They are paths straight and narrow, they are roads winding and wide, they are oceans of air litered with iceburgs of clouds. They aren’t books, they aren’t words, they are not those beautiful streaks of beautiful paint dancing in the beautiful idyllic. They are trash bags filled with another man’s treasure. They are bells, whistles, rings, and horns. They are canons, fountains, copper red stretches of warm syrupy earth.