"When You Decide Not to Be Boring, Call Me" He Said

There was this fit litmus left along the ground untendered and she wept there, a bled scar. If only whereabouts [in chains] he was the serpent in her Edith Hamilton. She didn't walk well in the morning light. He was never anywhere. The culprit had a sound about it and her eardrums rang shut. Overcast is one thing. In a dim or not quite moment he would turn only in conversation rabid for there had been nothing for a long time to begin with or retort. Madness is finding like minds where no like minds have been fostered. Various art movements, she thought. And the cream sky went dead like post curfew Ann Arbor maybe. Maybe someplace else. He walked ahead of her along the opposite street side. It would often have been winter where she coughed. Just history. The kind of thing nobody majors in.