Dear you,
A day (nay, make that a day AND its comrade night) more capable of going in wrong direction I’ve not yet had misfortune of meeting. Today, tonight, all of it, one backward canter perfectly performed. Perfectly polished to such a gleam that I see my form everywhere reflected. Reflected on the ground. And on the feathers of the giant birds who haunt my every step. Wings browbeat.
Redo. Retrace. Rework. Refit. Remodel. Relink. Repeat. Re-, re-, re-, up until I think I’ll snap if I don’t yield to the humor that comes from a day committed to the retracing of steps.
Yours tangled up in melodrama,
X
(Postcard collage title: Forever at my heel.)
