and me? i'm a walking infirmary, by which i mean just turn me upside-downside-up like washing-up - little liquid left - so then shake and slap me - perfectly timed and worse, perfectly reasonable, to keep me running out and maybe, maybe, slice me open later - if you think it's worth it. as if there's much to say. either way rended, in the sea of all my worst, where all the rest of me went. with all my worst. and somehow easier i float by the salt of my sensitivity - over, of course - this questionable water like after new prospects and bright spots dampened out-put-left as if to dry - but then the body, obviously, like i said - it's not the clothes dragging me down. and it's so rare i meet with enthusiasm (and what is the name of that god, anyway?). it's like very occasionally i think: this must be what it feels like to really feel it - connection (perceived) (or maybe anything, really) - unforced - to begin with and those - i'm salt suspension as float-in the stand-in for dots, all stand-in for Top, and connect them for myself. i have nothing.