Ink it up and toss it through the hole. There’s an itchy wind lifting feet in a flash of winter sun. Looks as if a draw-card pull of 10s in all suits would face no better time than the very latest fragments. It’s the little hip and tuck to the right that hosts some fresh steps. Maybe, baby. We’ll wait and see to see if that cat will come to drag us in.
For now, more ink. There’s the exploits of confined seafoods to contemplate. Another serenade of these wee black hours. Percussive trickle of digits on keys that pull faces. More hours. Bring me the new moon, severed and sliced fine on a pitted silver platter.
The hunger for the dawn of an empty day is yet long distant.