cottontail days with voices.
God bless ye, merry gentlemen,
let nothing you dismay.
even if with the winter comes a longing for home, even if the voices swell.
The wind brings the cold mushroom chills and people are desperate.
They are walking around like 'wow, our favorite numbers are the same,
let's make children.'
so Les Mis. plays in the woodshop and i go to bed early. I fall asleep in the formal gardens. I try walking different routes but still can't get where i'm going. I write songs about leaving and tell the internet i'm doing great.
I keep wildlife in my desk drawer. Peter Cottontail looks up when i reach in to find a pencil. He says 'i'm just trying to help.'
i mumble thanks. it's perfunctory, but he goes on:
'it's some dog's day today. . . might be yours.'
I look around to see if anyone can hear me, then tell him
'curiosity might have killed the cat the first time, but they other eight times have my irresponsibility to blame.'
this shuts him up, and i lean back in my chair.