but it doesn't seem small, because i have no perspective.
also, no grasp of what's expected. i always had assumed everyone was exactly like me, or
nobody was anything like me, and hence
there was no need for context--everyone already, or
no one ever
understood
everything.
or anything.
so these sins, the clothing of my deeds, i don't know
how to account for, or
atone for them.
(walking out into hip-high banks of snow
and the mist that kept my hair damp for an hour,
seeing the distance-fading outlines of the black trees standing
shocking up from the white snow and thinking two things:
one, that what i call getting through the next day
is actually me using up my life in heaviness--
and two, that the mist in the trees makes good werewolf weather
by r.k.o. horror film standards.)
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