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e̳̳̺͕ͬ̓̑̂ͮͦͣ͒͒h̙ͦ̔͂?̅̂ ̾͗̑
A wall of differently-colored
particles (--> .
and the whole damn spectrum)
extending out and screaming
(maybe like pink noise) and
moving like a freight-train
pulsing (pulsating) through

my head but all of me.

And I'm not scared of you.

(When your viciousness comes
of sincerity—feelings: spontaneous
acts of dorky retribution—I love you.)

And I want to call you a razor—
some invocation of sharpness; a
hard angle (angels are less afraid)—

but that's candy coating (clothing:
something worn),

and you're fragments.

And maybe birds <O> or
a light (and I do feel a light and
giddiness—glee—often and a
certain softness) is there but


ephemeral extensions of equity
is all I've got and

words (to be clear).

And to be clear

that's much more than's respectable (
not crass, but honesty always
is) and there's just too much:

the pixelated field in the void.
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