The dreaming-sequence brain, the same one that screams and scams and scrams and takes itself for advantageous granted; under-entitlement meant to mean anything, really.
Upping whirlwind sticks; still asphyxiating, reeling, meaning but never quite managing.
Stands eerily alone; prone, prone, prone to prolonged bouts of natural indecision.
That creative necessity which endlessly abounds tightly by the right side of wrong again.
These average inconsistencies that have been killing her – clearly, clearly, clearly.
When she never really had it in the first place improper to say that anything else matters the most in the whole of her pampered universe.
Misled trust and nothing but for the brush of one mother’s unidentifiable touch.