I was going to write about the other pair of bones, but your name should be Samson.So I'll write about you instead.You are going to be rich and famous. When you look at me next, I'll be better at storing things in. Today you were skipping in a curved path and it was like a tornado in slow motion. You have a lot of potential like the morning sun or a new washing machine.I have stolen from you and it makes me feel poetic and full of pathos. I want to make you realize that a lot of things, like addiction and affection,are somewhat OK.You are a few years worth of solar eclipses strung together outside the history of the galaxy. If you ever come with me to the hill-place, it will just be sad.I want you to learn nothing new about me until its time to say, "I'll slap you!" again.I know what colour mode you are. I know that your shoulder blades shine and i know the back of your hand like the back of my hand.
A part of your being is composed of a huge sack of mutating fireflies.It's a very old jute sack you need to get rid of, and transfer its contents to your ticker.I pretend like i know you because that is enough, so far.
You don't need any more words, you don't care, your dinner isn't going to start tasting any more bland if i stop right now and I'm going to have a very confusing dream about you later in my life, I'm sure of it.Do you know your crown falls like a thick maze of vines over a piece of furniture that's been abandoned in a forest? Who does that? If I had my way, the abandoned piece of furniture would be auctioned. Or brought home with the grime on my sole and the cuts on my arm.
The forest must be deep and full of grief.
If I ever touch your face, I'm going to get a lot more confused.
But you know, your name is quite OK.