(Alluding to a movie, untragically) I watched a man die u[pr]ooted in a lack of pr[otection] by throwing his hymnself off a building. It was sad. I never knew the man, so I could not particularly long for him either.
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I am deathly ill. Forgive me as I have not been. Binary fission is making the better of me at this instance and I can't stop exploiting newscare unscheduleable drugs for salvation.
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Ever since I was a little kid I wanted to see snow in the city I was born in. I could of course go anywhere else in the world where it snows more often, but I missed out on the opportunity to watch snow here, in my form of reality, and isn't that just terribly unfortunate? I wonder if I'll be walking outside, and I'll see all I can't find it in me to forgive, and then the snow will come hailing down as though I were about to turn transparent. Would I be able to cry there? Would that be okay? Would that be acceptable?
Who knows.
It's the peak of winter somewhere down (even though the solstice should've been last month, but, it's fine, everyone's skewed and skewered like little sacs of lamb meat these days), my grandparents called me to let me know it started snowing in their city, which admittedly is only a few hours away from here, but still I could never find it in me to visit that place. It's not where I was born! I don't belong there. I am nothing there. If I were to move I'd revisit Star City(s) from forever ago and settle over there instead. I'd like to walk around my imaginary Michigan prairies with sheep and cattle as though I were in a beautiful and neverending Heidi episode.
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