My eyes fall, sewn into the floor. The stones are like thorns jutting the ground. In the night, when I am forced to go barefoot. With a pitchfork protruding the small of my back.

In my tendency today, I want to write in my perceived image of myself. Let me imagine my voice to be consequential, patronal of words that sometimes have no meaning until I arrange it in its needed form.

There weren't always dragons in the valley, but we may not have known because this one was human. We could not believe our eyes or ears when we heard it. It was like being in a riot.

I will worship what you worship as long as it is good to me. I am the only one in the world, watch how I talk to myself.

I am a loving boy, I will do as I wish. I like to hurl stones, round and firm from tightened fists onto passing pedestrians.

You leaned on the walls behind the drunk crowd, and everything so bitter, but you divine.