That I should need the thing. That I should chase myself around, tired. Sticking to the edge of every thing. That I should need at all the constant queries voiced and hiding, little against my voice, loud against my life.
That I should need the thing is the fear of a Wednesday, horizon smoked from the north, and my entire future balanced itself, dry on the edge of a glass.
That I should want the thing. Because the thing delivered me, spinning An Orange and A Blue. Because I’m in love with reverie, I’m in love with remorse.