the wind picks up what I burn.

in response, I hold it closer,

incensed at the audacity.

in a sense, I am innocent.

my incense glows for you,

sweet sparrow in my tangerine tree.

my eyes try to hold you for a moment more,

but the wind picks you up and takes you away.

what what

what what is a prompt for you, dear reader, that I ask you to indulge me in. let me waste a little of your time.

what do you claim?

what was the last thing you wrote your name on with permanent marker?
what is something that was someone else's that is now yours?
what is your favorite conspiracy theory?
what media: music, movies, books, do you feel like belongs to you and you alone?

Unsubscribe
​