I try to sigh a cry of love.
A poem or play,
Something to say
But the words were gone,
So long, sweet song.
I choke over the feathers
And spit out the bones.
@erikdempsey@HootenWilson It's a great account of individuality and power and how they both corrupt a soul, particularly young souls, and how they both are, in a sense, not real. Dostoevsky shows how we become sick by thinking that we are private individuals with the power to entirely craft our stories.
I have three cavities which can be explained by my anti-fluoride position and my regular grocery cart of bone broth, limited edition winter kombucha, dried beef sticks, and family sized bags of abhorrently sugary and artificially dyed gummies.