I've got a book. Rabindranath's name. it's hot. cry to hide. there is a part of me that can not belong because it is elsewhere. It can never be, I'm afraid. My daily Golgotha. The fame between the balls. My unapologetic vein that feels good. The swings are moving properly. I remember the theater of the absurd. remember shit. There is a part of me that is not yours, and never will be, because there is always somewhere else.
"The wave can not take the flower that floats
:
him when he tries to get away. "
And I disfigured.
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