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Made it, but to where

In 100, by Wyatt on December 1, 2019 at 12:15 am

Thirteen minutes left in november: Lying splayed on the ground of Denver international in a fur coat, belly full of hot cheetos and new-mexican pizole, beaten timberlands stained dark with beeswax, battered heart beating reliably and opening more with each passing moment, intentional imaginings of multidimensional narratives flitting vibrantly, cautious optimism for december bobbing gently on a turbulent sea, front teeth grinding softly, thumbs aching from tapping truisms on a tiny keyboard, a tired world sleeping outside frosty windows, every fiber of being wanting to rest to recharge to recoup to reinvent to reintegrate to restart to rebecome to be.

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