Nakedly special buttefly-symmetrical drape runner that escaped suburbia.

Much as it said, the fruit of a grateful mind is joy, so too, the bouyant fromage effluvium of the existential lip-rim, such sweetnesses are not without, from the good, and the foolish, and far more present, not effervescent, in those that overlap.

We put our lips together--yet there is not sound redoubled, but a silence, a drape runner that escaped suburbia and became, at once, something markedly odd, markedly, nakedly special, with its own butterfly symmetry, it makes me look up from my volume and make a pencil mark in the plaster, a pencil mark of the point in time in the universe.

 

We put our rims together--not too much need be made bemoanedly plain of all that--except to say my thigh acted as a heat sink for her core, and all were soon smiles, as in gratitude blooming out its tree-fruit of joy, that smattering.

I look at the 119 elements of the Periodic Table, all but shadings of feelings, variants and degrees of various things, and the reactions: the waste products spilled into rivers, into the black tea-water of the Miskatonic, black: opaque like my confused dreams, puzzled that knot together like the strands in my daily life.