Like how the sun shone through that solitary blind today, talk about the puddle of milk spilled on the table while serving yourself some breakfast, consider the color of your wallpaper, the absence of a wallpaper, whose voice sings in your head right now, and what words do you find your thoughts clinging to over and over and over, whose voice have you erased, and at which syllable did you start with; how many ghosts inhabit your house right now and how many of said supernatural forces are you willing to entertain? What do you want to be, what does this morning decide you will become? A fish, a fiend, a fallen wing off a clumsy angel mid-flight? Just right now you took a wrong left, so open your hands and show me: what else have you taken?
How long do you wait until another line arrives, and with what do you intend to welcome it?