Here is my this, over the collection of mandatory drugs that keep me running, some (but not all) of which I will probably take for the rest of my life. Old ones shall be replaced with new ones, and there will I go.

There is the boy-girl I once was, over on the sidebar of this ancient diary, the one that won't fill up the way paper ones do. One more entry, another, months, one more. Another. And I.

This is my here, dribbling pseudo-sapphic verse, by which I mean metre, not content. This is me with miles to write before I sleep. And wondering what flowers I would use to spell it all out. Thinking about making certainties out of All These Things.

Loving you.

<<agé chose>>

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