And if the egg isn’t sunny-side up, or overly runny then I won’t be sad, and tomorrow I can re-write it all under a pace that moves sunrays so quickly to me and back outwards that I won’t even acknowledge that I’ve spent X amount of time writing non-sense (but average non-sense to make it all that much worse).
I have many people in my mind worthy of a story. Pasts untouched and stored waiting to resurface.
I've been painting as a form of removal. On a Sunday evening, a few words may make their way onto a painting asking for comfort. They want to be held once again, but like a mother who has decided her early twenties is too young, she leaves the infant outside the steps of a local bakery asking the trees to watch the child until the baker arrives to open shop. When the sun has yet to rise, yet to wake the baby, the owner will find a gift better than bread.
But I don’t want those words…