i'm always spinning through the slots allocated, i guess. happiness and horror, alone and at your elbows. the madnesses mesmerised like notepaper i can't quite fold. not the way i'd want. i'd want to be happy, i'd want to always be helpful. even if i am invisible, i want to paint over that. i want to post the question to a paragraph, not to paralysis. i still can't shake the letters away.
everything suggests to be better than this, sing only in yellows. but i keep it's chair clean and die under the table. i am largely avoided, because you don't know how to approach anything like what i am. i'm only anything like what i am because you avoid me. i can't be short and sharp. just a short project or a sharp smile. i'm tired.
it's strange, you say you don't see the electrical storm, as I swallow the contents of my desk, finding no way.
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