We are struck, we recover. Our injuries are only broken strings. Snapped, the chords are corrupt and wavering. Replaced, they sing. But the strings are big, almost 5 and a half feet tall and big enough to fit my shoes.
Your strings play off beat and the melodious nonconformity dances and plucks. A twang: that broken, fractured, slice. That bitch of a 4 count. When one person is over-glorified so much and so many times in my mind that if they get too close my heartbeat goes through my chest and my river of blood overflows its banks. So far deserved, I reassure, but am blind to any flaw.
I have to post this before it starts sounding stupid when flowed back through my own eyes.
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