Sloughing off, shedding by rubbing beak and mane against the bark of a fallen tree, undoing months of extreme narrowness and the paucity of otherworldly thoughts: let them pollute this page, so it is no longer usable, blazing lines of wild undergrowth through the empty expanse.
Good natured clear headedness: how sense can be purple or meaning—how anything can—or can fail to feel lachrymose-wise at the sensing of a hamster or hedgehog nudging an apple, red off the edge of a blue, softly shifting, blanket. Was he already bloody before the eagle came to feed on his midsection? Or was he yet bleeding proleptically—how anything can—or can fail to bleed squeezing turniply—you can’t—that’s the long and short of it.
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