If you would simply cradle your face within a pair of hands unaware of your own, perhaps it would become more just for you. Perhaps the days could blaze by unassumed, the buffoon of your indecency unladen in the current motif presented before the crowd of clocks and beggars. I,
Could count on my own two hemispheres
the amount of time it took me to realize a smile is not always a grin, and that oftentimes the tick and the tock do not chime in time with the quarrels of your speech, with the patterns of your personal grime.
Be that as it may, I do appear the one left beyond the gate of iridescent impunity, if only for this day. If only for every day, in an equal sense. Bring to me the ledgers of your soul, please. I beg of you. Show me every single date that defies the human notion of fucking the fuck up. It isn’t an unnerved chime, clattering along the ankles of your day-to-day. You are as broken a clock as I, and the signs point along the same lines in my palm, spelling out fine decorum, I assure you. That is to say,
I am no fancy beast. However, in a duel of dinner etiquette and sass, I can squarely toot a horn louder than your own. I will take no pleasure in it, but there you have it.
Please. Do bring your own fork?
wishfinger 