Chivalry Turned Sour

This morning my head is a tiny black cabinet
which brings about feeling
like a widow with the clarity
of whom she really loved and why
it’s gone.

Word of the day: mass enslavement
(By the way, there are two separate entries for enslavement in the OED; British and American English. No, it’s the same definition.)

The postman was in wide trousers today, dropping off the bits I ordered online. In his pathetic look you can forgive him the wrong pronunciation of my name, and more jolly ignorance followed when he said: ‘Sign your life away.’ I looked at the little screen and how the electronic pen wouldn’t pick up the l and e properly when I replied: ‘Hopefully not my soul.’ Then the poor fellow walked off with a wink not ever knowing what devilish yummy biscuits were inside the box.

Want to know what fatal mistake I made with my art – ? – besides the usual underestimating people’s humble sense for beauty. It is that, I prioritised my instincts, survival methods… for solid foundations… but, you know, this solidity (OED: ‘the quality or state of being firm or strong in structure – biased notion’) is always made of glass, always transparent so you see the abyss (when you look for what’s underneath your feet).

A good reason to never walk over trap doors or cellar hatches you find near pubs, to let the booth roll down into the cellar.

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