Mush

Allure is an odd quality to maintain when you don’t do anything to maintain it.  Sweatpants, hair askew, smears aplenty, and oh, you are beautiful.

Belief.  He believes in something he has entirely made up and I will never meet this woman no matter how I try.

Clever.  Somewhere in this girl is an ounce of concentrated cleverness that if I could crack the can open of, would make a hell of a cake.
Doubt.  What the hell am I going to be able to do about any of this?
Exhaustion.  It’s the creepy kind that comes just from not doing enough.
Frightening to imagine that there’s no improvement possible, only defending against further decline.
Games.  I am in the middle of real games, fake games, games I can’t win, games nobody else is playing but me.
Hiraeth.  Everyone feels it, everyone knows the word, but it’s only because we are all desperate for it.
I, on top of I, on top of I.
J.  What am I to do with you?  You keep asserting closeness, but refuse to discuss the absence of distance.
K.  Kin.  I need to call my mother.
Larceny.  It’s so late in the day and what I wouldn’t give to just steal a few more hours to feed my obsessions, good and bad.
Mush.  When you don’t work the body, don’t work the mind, you end up with mush.
Now.  There is no other time to begin so why aren’t we starting?
Obsession.  I am nursing a few and it’s a helpless feeling.  Waiting to hear something is going to change when you’re the only one who can do it.

Popcorn.  Or Pizza.  Or Pain or Pea Soup or Particulate Matter.

Quixotic, obvious, but necessary, because there really is no other choice I would choose.

Rarefy.  A concerning word, but I pull the concertina and hear the ra-ra-raaaaaah as it collapses and expands and suddenly, we know the letters and where they need to go and world rights itself.

Sweetness.  In all of this twitterpation, I realize how I am beginning to lose sight of what the word means.  I know this day is not the day to put in the query, all my answers would come back haughty and cruel.
Trickery.  I’ve resorted to extreme alphabetical trickery to just get myself in the position to put words on paper.
Unhorse.  The longer we run, the faster a pace we can meet, the closer we get to reach the misericorde over and unhorse the rider that chases after us.
Vivify, you vivisectionist! Verify my verisimilitude, verily, with verity!
Willfulness.  Sometimes obedience is not an option, sometimes, it does not even come to mind.
Xavier.  There’s a name.  I wouldn’t name my kid that, but it is pulling up old memories that don’t precisely make sense.
Y, why not? Are not? Why? Are we going to dither?
Z, zero fight

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