Sometimes when the light is right even bad writing can be muse-full. Repetition for repetition's sake. Think of someone rolling wildly down a hill, hitting every rock. Thump thump thump.
My face, of its own accord, tilts up sometimes. An oily puddle, the moon, red leaves on black bark. It's the regenerative power of being alone, I think. My green bedroom, no overhead lighting, my small heart tucked in tight. Thump thump thump.
