I'm almost afraid to write poetry these days. I feel so exposed in it. My insides are so out. Better to hide behind drawings for a while, I suppose. I'm a bleeding mess of sap. So much love and guts, I don't usually have this much anger but at the same time be so in love with everything. Where's the fog gone? This etheric shell seems slightly thinner yet still crystallizing the forms beyond it into scintillating objects of wonder.