excuse me, i'm in the wrong room.

I sprint through the world blindly with family-shaped stencil in hand.

Cutting out all excesses, misfits, everything. Of course, nothing except grotesque remains.

Can you imagine trying to grate slate?

Back home I squint through my worldly-wise eyeglass.

The kind that magnifies all exceptions, variations, gradients. Of course, I am never content.

Can you imagine what a rose looks like under a microscope?

symbols, numbers and other neuroses

When you turn brackets inside out they include the universe and exclude perhaps only, you. Throw in an equals sign and this is set right again. )=(

Wise, watery Neptune knows this, of course. That you are but everything you forbid yourself and even your walls (perhaps a little traitorous) are the same.

Just another white spark to justify the entire dreary afternoon on a seven-seven (allow yourself a giggle).

Today when you stammered and I asked sorry, what? and you flicked it with three fewer (and therefore less guilty) syllables it dawned.

You were trying to be more accessible. This perverse compulsion to arrest yourself without reason (when is there reason?) was not my albatross alone.


The things we do to make those we love feel safe. And adequate.

not exactly Jung

The Victim? Too haughty.
The Queen? Fell.
The Clown? Too dry.
The Satirist? Hope too desperately.
Blonde (but sweet)? Spell too well.
The lithe Fool? See through too much.
The Hermit? Love too hard.
Angel? Too much rage.
The concerned Representative? Deathly reticent.
The Wallflowers, then? Not enough.
Speak? Why?
Shut Up? Fume too much, still.
Fly? Fear of falling, remember?
Stay-at-home Mom? Too little content.
So you're Wilde? I'm Earnest.
Blyton? Too controversial.

What's left to be? Sensible.