It’s much like raw fish with stoned eyes.
Words are hard to come by these days and when I find some squirting out my mouth I am grateful and I make do.
I want to have memories of cowdunged floors, or dunking in brown frog pools.
Last night I dreamed of glaucous grapes. They hung from my ears, and spewed out of my mouth. A stone played pupil and let off its purple down my cheek.
It is not the stone in my eye that I fear. It is the glaucous.