I am not alive enough to walk you through the mess that is my mind today so I will say only that I have nine minutes to scratch the surface. If I were a butterfly this would take me to the toddler stage of my life. I know that you might not know that butterflies only live twenty-four hours (or so I read once and I have not the time to check) so this is why I am writing this sentence.
What is the point of me walking around in the sunshine watching my feet, or a book, or the results of the breeze on the thin, thin clothing wrapped around certain shapes of people? What is the sense of me even asking you for the point? There is no point. I might as well stay home in bed and wait for the night to come again. When hunger comes I may pad downstairs to find food in a parody of the hunter the historians say I once was – although I don’t really remember this very well.
Several minutes must have passed. Have I the time to save and to check-edit? Maybe. Let me just post instead – just in case I don’t. Two minute warning. Siren sounds. Gone.