and sometimes I just sits.
Sometimes I feel like I've lain too long in the forest.
Sometimes the ribbon of echo that unfurls from my core threatens to eradicate me.
Sometimes the tenebrous beauty of a flower makes me faint.
Sometimes I wish for the skin of an elephant, so that I might furl it about my shoulders and charge blindly through the world, staining the cobbles with my soles.
Sometimes I wish for the skin of the air, so that I might pass from this place and be untouched by it.
Sometimes the noise is too much, and I wish I could drive thoughts from my skull like a little boy startling geese on a lake with a single bright shout.
Sometimes the pressure from outside matches the pressure from within, and I inhale...thus.
Sometimes I feel the ponderous weight of my own self-absorbed importance like a mountain carefully balanced upon a bird.
Sometimes I ache for release, like a balloon whose string has slipped from a raven's beak.
Sometimes I feel I have rocked back in my chair until the precise moment that I am about to fall, and that if only I could be distracted for an eyeblink I could swiftly look over my shoulder and see them carefully building the next moment, and the next, and the next, stacking them before me like a deck of playing cards.
How it inflames me. How I wish I could scatter those cards like wheat before a scythe, and in doing so release myself from this prison of blood and gristle and carefully placed footsteps.
Breton was a fool.