every morning, i walk towards the edge and throw little things off...b

what else can you do at 37? the ever growing pile of garbage and feelings. and still some strings grab hold. nagging little fingers, needy and wanting. you look for the mental cleaver, that period to end bad sentences, to shut strange talking mouths.

you're on different land today, someplace better yet scarier. you're not some tidy little pre-packaged pre-cooked little girl. no. there are no footsteps to follow, to lead you through the new snow.

you're getting back to that place where it's useless to talk. where words become foreign and what's ahead is just plain landscape.