I feel as though I am a wound on this earth. Yes, I breathe, but is that living? A caterpillar is never dusty unless that creature has innate sensitivity to be afraid. I feel as though I collect dust without being aware of what I collect. It is not a hoard a psychological innuendo. Maybe the dust is a soliloquy. A dismal beach is better then a desert that contains oil beneath the loose sand. Take me to that dismal beach. I can find the joy inside a rotten oyster shell. That shell may not hold a special pearl, yet at least that shell could act as a temporary home. However, when certain families own a house, the house should feel like a home. A home is more complete the a dismal shell from a dismal beach. I am collecting dust still.
J'aurais oublié votre nom. Voulez-vous me dire votre secret?