There should be something here, but there isn't because I can't read and I certainly can't write. There are no stories to tell, no adventures to be had. All the gold has been found all of the fortune won.
One.
Won one, lost six, pick up sticks, pick up stones, but certainly not dreams, no dreams to drum, or dream. Can't we see or sew seeds, saw sees, seesaws, seashells, not even for a moment
Stop following me. You see trees everywhere, not pines. Pine trees do that thing, that well that being pine trees thing. When you think of fall it is not pine trees that come to mind. The trees you see you see are maples ash oak willow. You can't see the trees for the forest. Lost in your head again you can't even hear her. She is ignoring you, or engaging everything in the world that is not you.
Are you alright?
In to the center of your eyes, past your eyes. She sees all of that illusion. The opera of your life she is the director the protagonist the participant observer. The unyielding endurer of your bullshit.
Yea, I'm fine.
Trees are nice. The talk without syllables they are colorful without being bright. Why did you take her here, you will not find answers. You look for them in her hair and on her skin but you're not going to find them.
Every now and then she glances over at you, it is playful but you know that she is: locked.
Your key will not fit.
