This time last year a soft spoken small person of a height four foot ten sat by the edge of the bed.

Iron held in an iron grip. Ready to rip lines, rip-roaringly along the creased, now-greaseless, handkerchief.

Glancing quickly out of a smaller window in the top right corner of the room, they followed a quick stream of yellow, dust dancing in the light against the pale wall.

The pale wall had an Outside side, and outside there lay a slightly less vertically inhibited individual sprawled stomach down, down, down on the ground.

The light glinted off the single metal bangle dangling on their hand as they manhandled the grass and attempted to sink lower than low, slower than the glinting blinking light on their limbs.

Head turned every so slightly sideways, ears pressed deep into the land they hummed and murmured, mumbled and heard a softer rumbling sound in the distance.

In that distance, during that very instance, storm clouds rode furiously inward, toward a rather more expansive person, expensively laid out on a bench with flowers in their hands.

Their gown flowed down towards the dangling difference between their nose in the sky and their thighs on the side, with the petals darkening and with the clouds now growling closer and deeper.

Their eyes shone apart as they stared down the greying light, brightly glaring back at them, and oh what a fright, as right there and then, the sky cracked open, Oh lords, Oh Heavens! they squealed as the sights began to roll in.

Roll Tape. “So where should I begin?”

I am now.here.

Something:

Flying Crooked

There are no more generalists. Attempts to understand Everything seem futile as the amount of information is ever increasing. Knowledge expanding. Where is wisdom. What is intelligence. How will this work.

So perhaps I was born in the wrong era. Classic copout statement.

I was born in this time. In this now. And I should live for it. Not like a long swept dream, left out by most and appearing only in crinkle tissue papered books.

This I rhyme a second word. This I rhyme on time. This I rhyme a tad absurd. This I rhyme just fine.

“He who never lives for the moment, never lives. So what of you?”

This I rhyme once more today. This a little rhyme I play. This I rhyme a lot more strange. This a rhyme about to change.

A Nothing:

I want to tell you a story. A grand tale of waving emotions and overcoats of thought. A story of odd people and strange deeds. Of kindness and unexpected warmth. Of fires in rained-on cabins and the rainy seasons in hell. I want to make you laugh and cry and pull your hair in frustration in the same breath. To coo and sigh and dream in admiration. I want to make you feel. But I have no fictitious story.

I have this.

This Bit-Flip Syndrome. This ever changing state.