It's darker than it should be; trivial problems are accumulating faster and faster. The nervous tic triggers a regressive posture. Forward motion has plateaued; hills fade with the light; march falls into a stumble. A gawky stumble. I can no longer type when you enter the room, you are the best thing in the future, the times call for a sweater. The pensive calling you a bad person asthough it's missed orange juice and coffee. What steals the light? The trampoline is missing protective foam on , some springs seem to be missing and the weight it used to support feels halved. I have some spare springs, they needn't be used till the ice melts.
"Spring has sprung the grass has riz, I wonder where the flowers is."
"Spring has sprung the grass has riz, I wonder where the flowers is."
