wondering how i'm read. eating horoscopes. engulfed in childhood leaves, drowning in the artistry, having no intention to resurface. sometimes the scramble buries me, sometimes it's as aerial as a gossamer. do i harbor the same potential glow as you do for me? get by, get by, please keep talking.

saturnine predictions, expectant heart. always, this.

just escort me somewhere definite. questions and badgering that ignite overthinking - be gone.

please