#17

play your music little teaspoon, i'll savor every note! the glass and you have such palpable chemistry, both so necessary to the duet! forks and tablespoons should be more like you, they make no music, and thankfully so, it would be atrocious; that which they graze becomes days of nausea, and they hold an intimidating stare as if challenging the observer to admit their situation and position in the hierarchy. knives, i'd be lying if i said their debauching can't become tiresome, but i'd be lying also if i were unable to acknowledge my constant return to the seductive beings. when vigor turns to sickness it must be a sign from the heavens.
run the cold water atop the recently created heat, i need the newborn vapor and growing, infant drops traveling aimlessly and landing on me, the stupefaction will divert the mind from its wish of cooking its host, reservation of the ceremony to consecrated places might have also worked.
return to the origami world of which you came from, where doors may only be opened when one is no longer vulnerable to the sun and dew can find ways to reside in one's marrow, where humidity is asphyxiating and the whisper of a fan is ever-present, where there's always a light, all too aware of one's state, seeking immortality in one's cornea, and where nights are stained a distasteful orange and blue, forcing one to face the possibility of a trip to florida reminiscent of times long forgotten and death. propanone, a map of my heart made at six and the words "inverosímil", "yankee", and, one of my last names, "ellis", returning every few thoughts or so, the origin of each thought very obvious, i wonder what i'm supposed to make of them, write them on my origami walls? this is summer; so impatient, it should wait its turn like the rest!
the artificial patterns calm me, a habit that never cemented itself as one but has visited me often since my gain of awareness, old friends. i've always had a proclivity to externalize, never the inverse, and to escape from yourself some pathway must be created. isn't the outside serene? isn't punishment redemption? an act so noble and intimate.