“such is—” i am tempted to say, but i compose myself like a bad poem.
we wish we could talk about something else, but we can only talk about what we know. this is what we know: the way the pen glides on the paper, how the lines blur, and whether we should be worried; how certain words are filtered through our ears the way others aren’t; how we are so easily distracted by conversations that do not belong to us; how cold air feels to skin that is starved for warmth; how uncomfortable we are, but not unresolved.