I’m mad. Mad for everything and mat at everything. I feel so strongly for all things, for all nouns. And yet I feel nothing for the most transitive verbs.
Peoples’ histories, their families, their secrets, and their humilities. I’ve never needed my own to be so guarded all at once so badly and so immediately. And that feeling of protection that I crave should never be this severe. I’m so safe that I’m exposed.
Also, the blinds. Never pull up the blinds. Keep the bars there.