Each time, scars open, and the blood runs down. I look at each, decide to change what I can change. A frigid stare convinces me no hope is accurate, and yet within, there writhes an unbalanced, optimistic urge to fix what I can never fix.
In the cycle that is real, projected happiness has no place within this fractious world. A perfectly unlikely dream appears like a mirage, and I am dying of thirst and toxic water at the same time. sheila e. murphy
