I have hundreds of these things. Thousands maybe. Who are they?
index cards
they fall from my fingers like autumn leaves
My brain overflows and cramps, stuttering out fury and sadness, until all that remains are these compulsive little remnants of suffering or the deepest sort of questions I could never explain and you might never understand.
compulsion
They never stop. I could wallpaper the world and still not understand, these grey marks just as soon the kindling of a still to come apocalypse.
