direction
i woke up and felt that first breath of conciousness leave my lips. sitting up, i bent down and screwed my feet on. put the peices back together and go on another day. the soles of my feet are worn and dirty, but you know that the first thing that my hand makes contact with is a pen. walk up to that worn wall with shaking hands and slow eyes, spider webs in the corners and now a barely legible “thank you.” to match.
my knees do not woble, things are looking up.
