Tealines

Har Har!

In the gynaeceum, I hide in a bower of dictionaries.

I am in love with their blue covers, their fine print, italicized etymologies, surrealistic lexical histories. 

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I am presented with a teaspoon of medicine and scoff at the purple solution. What good is medicine when the thrill of instability draws your center of gravity an infinitesimal distance further off the edge.  

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I frame myself as sound-pioneer committed to the timbre of banging head against wall for rest of my life.

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All sorrows washed out nightly in Holy Waters. The Saviour smiles with silver hair and gold earrings.