Today while the blossoms aren't any longer clinging to the vine,& the strawberries have been allowed to free into the depths of consciousness,
the morning awakes into the stream.
How to accept the minutia of its event, to distract else, instead of pained within its agonies of sound rising as a constant injunction into hell, called a constant flow of traffic, without the etiquette of timing to remain the same.
A traffic that pours in and out with volumes ebbing to each of their own wants.
One by one, tens by tens, wheels & more wheels.
Am I brain dead dumb by now.
