reading: the penelopiad, margaret atwood
in the mornings i costume myself. i hold my hands delicately as unfledged wings and i wander these streets. or to balance these careful toes on slick railway tracks. i am picking strageling wildflowers and i let them fall from my fingers into the glassy sunset ocean. there's salt in the air. all is calm and unclear. there is nothing here to worry for.
more later.
