A life is charged on the menu.

Occasionally you sleep, given immunity. It’s horrid erotics, but in one conceit I could count Dakota Wizards on my fingers... Your hand got in its say, of course, eliminated all that fuss locked inside. You took my hand the most. Took it to heart.

Not every detail is ready for our Cottage Roadkill section, home base, but you know fingering you’re clueless about vertically integrated brinkmanship deliberately made up to look made up, to look as if it thinks you don’t need a hand trying not to skip dinner, coming through splinters of clouds and low pressure peeled back from late summer, despite my never getting the hang of it;

tenuous, jutting fingers into and under the interstate that brings you and me home.

To recap, I don’t think the life of the mind can be made up. I’m not worried it gets easier.

Seasons