Coyotes biting off bits of butterscotch bisquettes. Modified tarot cards, dripping diagonal and reeking of Pagan magic. Provoked by the sweet smell of housepaint, smoke, and dry leaves. The territorial cephalopod, all wet and tentacular. Seventeen, indeed. Perhaps in Saskatoon, in a little red kayak. Oblivious to sentimental, metallic tokens. Possessing the same little rainbow glow of a junkyard gas stain at high noon. And the creek ran dry.
I don't know what to tell you, sister person. These past few months have been ... taxing. Taxing? Yeah, "taxing". I'm currently breaking. Thanksgiving breaking ... -ing, that is. I've got a whole week full of nothing, and I'm thrilled to death. This, of course, means that I finally have the time to read a damn book, go grocery shopping for the first time in over three months, and paint. Really paint. Gracious. Just imagine that.
Come home, already! 'fore I get all lethargic and disinterested.