maybe these are the days we have to scream: guttural, hieroglyphic. imagine: sandstorm. this moment, fitting so squarely into numerical blocks, held up against the sparkling landscape. cunning fibers, glee and unrest, coming in hot like absolute softness. because we have to wear skin, puce and distracting, the peel and blur that escalates. you say you can crawl out on demand. When I demand it, you say you can’t crawl out. why the colors become the most important part of the story, why the grief can’t balance your hate, so cloaked in Sunday’s best. so ready to unfurl.