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it felt good to break. wonderful. tiny embryonic fingers snapping around my throat. a tragedy unfolds. tiny heads pushed ear to ear, too small for their owners' thoughts. voices filter through the branches in pale sunlight: come wednesday we will eat sandwiches and play video games and climb rusting buildings and crunch the earth beneath our sneaks < with little spits of whiteness coming from our nose and mouth. it is too bad. i thought of him too harshly and some things are irreversable. halos of rain break onto my head and it really is fourth grade again, except this time i consider playing video games and eating sandwiches and finding out. but too late. now he says these things out of comedy or spite or a strange mixture of both, dead words severed from his hamroll insides, attached to a pole to showboat around. the ogre. the good ogre. (i found a note in my library book today: "rowan, knock louder. were you sleeping? do you like ORANGES")
by The JavaScript Source
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