and there’s another certain hour ahead after it.
it’s 64 degrees outside, but you’re not. terrorized by the quiet phone. afraid of any kind of relay, really. someone’s always expecting something, and you’re not ever up to it, anymore.
even christ only fell down thrice, and never permanently. is your predicament conditional, or has a new stench of normalcy attached itself to your toppling incontinence? indeed, you’re oh-so hoof over tea kettle, jostling from forever and nigh-on everywhere into something sharper, frailer, somber-er and more permeable.