open neck sweaters

Too many words begin with the same letter some days when you just want them all to sound different at the beginning so you seem unique for once. Downy soft moments I had imagined instead have become rhythmic patters down on my head with three different poly-rhythmic divisions at once.
I rode my bike to feel the wind in my hair and to feel the block out for the shortest moments revealing of the competitive isolations of sensation I ever imagined. Bursts of light and sound skids in the corners, too many pedals and not many broken spokes. Blue bonnets and blue beams of sky, memories like the broken leaves crunching under the weight of your dive for a bullet pass spiraling accurately to its destination. Stories that were told by more agile tongues and the longest silences, no air left to breathe without dust relics from some other age clouding the view of your own windows into the permanence of time. Extolling existential endings of one period of growht into destructive moments of frozen shame. Illustrative impressionism ill days drinking from the knowledge of written dictates you never leanred. It all ends too soon if you want to miss something important, and time keeps on ticking away the towering expenses of idle inspiring or indecision. Longer stories I could have told with patience for the uncomfortable silence as I gather my sweat in pools of new skills innocent and adolescent. Face and feet directly aligned with the present tense to dream of the past, the future has bricks in its basement. Someone could try to tell you who invented the first brick and whether or not that is what she called it. That is brain food for anyone.