on cold nights i find myself without tissues and just blow my nose into my sleeve
everything is feeling sharp and the cold weather is like stepping on pine needles, well not at all because my nose clogs up and I cant remember the delicious smell
when i was 3 and lived in Kirbger austria, i climbed a tall pine tree one day and couldnt get back down because i was scared. i am still sitting on the top of the strong branches glancing down and pitying my ankles that will forever break my fall.
I dont have time, and i suppose i strongly resent those who have enough time to indulge in thoughts of themselves because selfless poets and writers are bad poets and writers.