The nonboredom, but the unwillingness to live hard. Maybe it's my blame on the lacking braincells, because of illness. It doesn't stop the beachparty popmusic, nor does it stop all the showers I take. The chapped upperlip is a result. The claws are not. I also am not stopped from wearing the bright red dress: it is a powercolor. How can one not smile consistently with all the confidence mustered?
I have plans for us, for us too. It will take weeks, but I'll be placated meanwhile; my bruise tattoo will be mollified. And everyone thinks he's a poet when he says "mollify Molly" and his peers congratulate him, but I say, you're not the first. And won't be.
This is too much information to keep in a head! How exhausting. I'm going to sit serenely on a sheepskin painting aqua and crimson, threading a needle in & out of folded pamphlets. Plastic ono will be there, and the appealing overdose of theraflu. See you in four weeks.
