Even in your dénouement, you are still beginning.
Again, change –the art, me, you.
A peril of going through the internet; you change. It rattles around the head.
This is what I do on Sundays, or thereabouts.
I think it’s incomplete.
These letters, like this promise, is not for you.
This time last year I was bawling my eyes out in a public restroom.
\ ˈsmī(-ə)l \
Dark humor, space shenanigans, evil corporations. Oh, and a Murderbot.
What does it mean to be free? Spoken word poetry.