29 February 2012


Sick of being big. Wanting precision, regardless of shape or sound. No longer hungry for tumult though always a little. No more wishes.

A slant; tiny, ineffectual, aware.

An oi from the back of the crowd.

A deceptively small door leading to cavernous insides.

Alice. Wide as a yawn. Even my big gaping mouth, open as possible but still a tiny little nothing. Bunch of cells and wet stuff. Mostly invisible. Free as mud. No matter. Woven in. Sensitive skin, osmosis. Smallest form of life. Still breathing, turning pages, blowing out flames, inhaling, ageing, shedding skin.

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