Not so much

On Sunday afternoons, you send me messages. I did cartwheels on the grass yesterday. I gravitate towards what is good, and wonder why what ever else gets processed is on me stuck. I pray pry it off. I take showers. I scrub. I am open to being deranged. I’m not deranged. I just take it anyway. I am a sacrifical lamb.

I’m not doing this purposefully.

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Through an eerie Blue froth of clouds…

Not so much

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