sometimes it feels like kiwis eating kiwis, as in kiwi birds eating kiwi fruits, quietly and somewhat adorably solemnly, this all in a sort of heartwarming and beautiful god-willed hilarity that permeates, intergalactic; you are warm with your kiwis eating kiwis, curling up in the hearth of All That is Good in the World, time and space your careful companion, with or without a lover, the serenity absolutely enough to charm.
all is well.
sometimes it feels like the yearly treks to the elm tree where your dad said he met your mom but you don't really believe him because of the way they move, but it's alright because a pretend-story is almost definitely better than none at all and you are sure of this; mostly you find visiting this elm very ironic because elms are extremely hardy trees that survive dangerous freezing winters but all Family took to shatter was fifteen minutes and a subpar geoduck on new year's day.
sometimes it feels like is it just me or are the subway seats heated, but really it is just that the radiators are built underneath; you are twenty-five and jobless and you took the blows for your brother back in 1999 when they hadn't yet thought of knives, but the point is you know where best to sit on trains, the end-cart corners, to sleep and dream of possibly heated seats and kiwis eating kiwis, always the metronomy of your own heartbeats, not anything else, not ever anything else.
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