this morning your picture came crashing off the wall--at 7:30. I did not know
what this meant, if it was a morbid sign of something. Are you still alive? I’m
thinking about you. dreaming about you. but you are probably sitting on your
bed, surrounded by papers trying to make your way through a sea of fear,
overwhelmed. what will you do with your life? I can see that it makes you short
of breath, I can see it sitting on your chest, it is concave. I know what it
feels like not to be able to breathe. your sorrow is stitched together with
watery eyes and a charming smile. finger picking and beatles songs. sleep
eludes you. you are glass to me. so I am left with a pool of honey in my hand.
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