and then our exile

There is something at the edge of my tongue. I can feel its shadow pressing against mine. i smell it behind my teeth. It is around the corner: i want to go around the corner. i want to embark upon a solitary caravan and approach unventured trespasses. i want to be alone, but fear descending into bland narrative. i want other individuals to merge with, to breathe their breath as my own. i want a backpack to sail upon the sea. i want to stop starting sentances with "i"...the moon is too much in my blood. The air is crisp; its edges, soft. Night-shadows reticent like unopened windows. To say behind the windows lies freedom would be passe; i am not passe. But there it lies. Each dashing hair on my body voices a separate anthem. i am already host to a listlessness that heralds the approach of an out-go/ for now, my term is up.
but no. i am caught in tangled prayers, external structures. The story i tell is not my own. School assignments.

To devolve into miscellany before a night of work: i have thirteen hours left wherein to do much-work. My skiis are still drying--two, three weeks now? i can only hope they are dry before the Birkie. In the interim, i use the plastic fishscales: a love-hate relationship. Also, a couple of individuals (other than my mother) have this day termed this a "blog"...call it a "glob" or "enotes", but i know of no "blog". /...if you are still up in the wee hours, shout out and i may respond: not to detract, but revitalize.
The chickens now await my auspices, that their water not freeze and egg-yolks curdle.