certain dreams should not extend beyond the length of your eyelashes. certain somnabulistic secrets should remain yours. they become lies, when you drag them from your slumber.
we mock our winters here, leaving only goblins of sarcasm for the spring to sweep up. stranger and stranger our seasons become, as the sun draws ever further from the point of no return. the zero point. yet you remember me, us, and the things we've done. the random acts we have committed. we mock our winters here, because we know that winters end, and we save our sarcasm for mulch.
if only we could mine all the silver tongues, and sell them above market. a better world may be merely a matter of proper management.
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