white foam crowning the wave he called the dare. primal fear that rids one of every useless quibble. the hand that suddenly has no problem letting go of it all.
in the land of the dark meadows the flowers were rotting in the absence of the sun. a light instilled itself in my chest. it gleamed and fell down, making the wastelands home, making them mine again
there's a hunger at the end of winter; to begin again, to start for the very first time, to move as if nothing was ever lost, maybe in trivial pursuit of a feeling long gone