I am sore.
I don't mind so much that my
body rings with aching, but my mind. An icy fog has claimed it and I
want to think clearly, but it hurts. My thoughts are blocked, left
unpried, unwon to discovery and feeling, I cannot let them loose, cannot
free them to speak. The white and black faces of the piano keys smirk
at me, shrouded by deep hued, Wesley wood. Maybe if I knew how to play,
or even if I didn't and I was alone in this apartment, I could sit at
the wood-chipped bench and touch those bells, sewing songs that somehow
capture a patchwork of the engulfing thoughts drowning my head. My hair
is loosely piled on my head, untamed as ever. The gas fireplace to my
right is blue and shadowed, dead and cold. Straight ahead, the tall
window facing the rooftop, is a picture of glitter powdering from above
in thin streams through sunlight...
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