she was weaving a story it felt good but the weft threads were shaking memories were interrupting the most beautiful dreams and awakening a sense of dizziness
they imagined the sky they chiseled the clouds imitating the waves they lived each and everry day
I close my eyes to listen to my roots, the roof over my head an illusion that did not hold up, I would take somebody else’s voice to fill the guest card and then lay down, exhausted, in my dark stories.
looking for (something) finding (it) crossing (it) out reformulating (it) doing (it) again finding (it sometimes)
following out of the corner of the eye, pretending that it is just following the flow of the water