crowings

A thousand beggings behind, a hundred apologies sincere. Please pardon our step, I am just a busybee among flowers. This is what I've been doing these past many moons.

<-- for affect.

Have you ever noticed that as a thing becomes more comfortable, it also becomes more potentially alienating? Take love, for example. You can turn to mush and hardly notice a thing, but those around you who haven't the care or imagination or patience to follow and feel your heart-threads tend to think a bit less of you, don't they? Every PDA is really just a misunderstanding. There's always something to be clarified.

Mwa.

I love the world for all its cares.

I can hardly follow myself anymore along these silly applications of slights and mishaps, accidents and scars; these bare and mustard-yellow envelopes I'm told to stuff myself into, little inlets of personified substance prepackaged for some standardized evaluation, specially prepared to transmutate into an expectation you've already presupposed.

Truth be told, I'm hardly more than a slight mishap myself, no matter what I'd have you believe.

I have a few interviews, and I'm not sure if they'll be condemnatory or affirming. I guess I'm a bit nervous.

I also hardly think anyone is listening, so I'll make myself as a cicada in a moonlit and greenleafed field:

Kree kree!

P.S. If you are still there, I still like you.