bird num 8/9
the tone. if there was a tone, and we can’t hear much anymore, we suspect it’s estranged with the colorings of the last hangup.
forgive me, i’m at your door with a bag full of unsolicited dogma. i can’t help it. i’ve been a steward lately. miracles unfolding before my crusty eyes.
you’re probably ready to stomp it out.
stomp away. i’m here, i’m here with the warm water and a stiff brush, when you’re ready for me to wash the shit off your foot.
and each time noel’s phoenix was consumed in conflagration and born again, it arose more fabulous than the last.
cheer up buddy. you are loved.