Hare Hill

i) heating of a heart ii) camel back iii) a car that sings in certain speeds iv) lake with no bottom v) old ash waiting for a new spark vi) after many springs vii) the thin, red line of your lips viii) your fingers braiding the water ix) paintbrush marks where rust begins x) michigan  xi) lovers siting under your tounge like seeds xii) fluttering of the rarest bird  xiii) chameleon of your skin xiv) the slow shed of the year

 There is an exciting, bubbling feeling to streaming your thoughts for complete strangers on the internet. Especially when there is an awareness that there are so few of them, and that you are a stranger to them, too. Like when a train rumbles down the tracks and roars, and you roar with it, and for a second you're a thing of metal and it of flesh. All very cathartic etc. Making existence a bit more bearable.  Not many mirrors or puddles today to reflect oneself in. Not many trains to scream at. Guess I could stop explaining myself here, as nothing of substance will come out of further babbling. I take pleasure, however, in talking and writing into the void. It's not the same as when you speak in your mind or hide the ink-stained pages in your desk drawer. No, this goes somewhere, floats, connects you to this invisible, thin, shivering web of thought. What I want to say is that I find it very exciting that one day, someone who has never met me, and is not in the same room, sam...