the garden on things wondered

there is easy love in most patterns, we have eyes to close with the sounds of showerheads trickling and doorframes that creak. the carpet in most parts of town has been pressed down to an early halt, stains cover the grass that doesn't grow.

but i am here, waiting with the safety of a saint for the most beautiful of the things to come around. are we still seeds?

2004-05-10 | 2:00 p.m.
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