Ten digits.
Give ming all of your discarded footwear — could anyone pay you enough to wear them?
Have you not rattled ming and my sense of equilibrium? With your shiny pixels and masking circles.
I thought that maybe, you could re-shape ming. Give ming new directions and new angles to dissect. Mercy, your cunning footsteps always elude me.
Oh, I beg of you and your Cornell College Widow, those big red fumes that could skin ming alive.
At least you could take the Ravens for a writing desk.
And close the chapter on your premature departure.
How do I convince you. What will it take for you to believe that you’re important to ming. You’ve imprinted your hindsight and your post-production onto ming. Even after I stop running after you and your tight calves, your soaked jerseys, you’ll still have a hold on ming.
So, with this syrup of diatoms or something similar, you immerse ming,
to something like the bold and the restlessly in motion.
