November

something there is that loves an arrow, or flattery like when the current or blaming mouths in mirrors to private discernment and alarms engorge every room's crease. you can't hear how you sound and the voice in your head plus the ones that surge. nothing can muffle it, but everything shows up instead. Notice first, groove in couch or tore up face. house no food and he show up on the third day, shut in and announcing. He shuffle some promise which is just enough to stave off an evening out taking cell pics of yourself and all those who meant so much, who you can no longer detect save for screen reflections and the outpost toilet scene because you agree with yourself that it must be a case of November.