Here’s where the stop comes to start

wish the snow was headlike, shaped in all of water’s dreams.

if you stand on your couch and portals form between the space your head touches and that shadows make out to be the edge of the room–a border, say–does that make the ground a piece of inhabitance or the hat you’re wearing imaginary since it’s a job description and also something people post about themselves when there’s little occupying their fingers?

and what makes the border of a room?

all i’ve got is questions and this ring pop. mt imagination made of paper and pistols of mistyping. the sound loud in an ear when water drains and to regain balance then. my friends are birding the telephone noise. a new type of ink for your hair to settle down with and make a furlough, a future.

and what separates the room from ebbing?

such-like-noises are similar to light as we witness its decay. listen to the radio for ancillary motives. if you can, say anything once this is all over. but it doesn’t come to that. rush and rush and bristle.

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