"you know neither me, yourselves, nor anything" [menenius] - coriolanus, II, i
in a bid to keep my feet dry i stared all day at the ground to avoid puddles. i am now frustrated to hell for all the faces i missed.. for every person who existed to me as a pair of feet...

***

it seems that poetry is my delicious terror; my terrible self-affliction...

every word is violently torn from its hiding place, assembled by force and clamped into place during a process so energy-consuming, you might expect from me a whole novel

what, then
why

because it tears at my insides until it's uprooted, feet first