Today I have read that the family is a crisis the justice system is failing that the federation is fragile but bound in doctrines that the dust kicked up is falling in fanciful curlicues across shafts of light. I would like to be wounded by words but itch more like touched nerves or sweat glands.

Today I have bathed in light only I haven't today I stood in spring rain to smoke today I have lazed and sternly scolded my habits and affected nothing. Today I have not resisted closure and not resisted angst. For these my art is not an art but typing "I don't understand this censure."