i am a writer a resting pen in a palm feels akin to nature vagabond vultures on paper is true nurture to a warm month of may, i really have nothing to say to my nonverbal acquaintances, stars and silent bars, droplets of black create a void so vast warm yet far away, it tears me apart fast silent sighs on a night light, torn apart rings and even worse things the book calls me no matter how i look 13/03/21