I am not looking at the time.
the storm passes overhead rain batters roof and windows the damp air is cold smells of musty earthworms and rotted leaves I sing a song under the noise
— — —
is this what it means to fill a page? perhaps all that flows from me is not genius not actually for anyone other than myself is that okay? I know its necessary something wild stirs affects me beyond words is this enough yet? perhaps I write innumerable fragments am I not also fragmented? finding whole