my winter would be so proud of me. I am half way done with a paper thats due tomorrow, instead of waking up and 9 and turning it in at 1:59pm. besides, who makes things due on a sunday, at such a strange hour.
I remain who I am, multiple and one of the
herd, yet not of it. I walk on the ground of my own being browned and hardened by
the ages. I am fully formed carved by the hands of the ancients,
drenched with the stench of today’s headlines.
But my own hands whittle
the final work-