21 october

To be honest, I might build a house of bricks before French toast sticks, but there are plenny of words far more absurd that crowd to mind in the roughly defined eveningnight under bright lights of leftover dinner thoughts and the glimmer of laugh is a cool carafe of carryhome thanks to replenish the tank and it goes down smooth and easy – a greasy slide that sounds much cooler as a chute or a ladder, like a classy Meta Hatter jumping with hilarity – wears on me not invisibly, an easy tell if you’re looking, and the books – I’d say – are cooking (an orange stabbed through the heart and boxed numbers off the charts) – while there’s lots of parking darkening, a forward bounce is hearkening and fall’s a mess of leaving with a full sky up above