another wasteful session

I never finish words

, but it’s cozy to know the words stick around like when you freeze fireflies in amber: same colour bulbs, faint discolouration and make-up, like, like, like, whispers that don’t come out as whispers but full-formed delicacies; people look at you, but they turn back to their articles about the smog in Paris that’s choking the Eiffel built-finished for the 1889 World Fair, the same year as the Great Seattle Fire in which gentle-clothed-things grew on-top and grew and grew walls painted yellow and green and pink and blue, wasted eyes, we’re all colour-blind: I drink all wines, and write    some     words.