In ghettos of our memories we rely too heavily on what wasn't when it was, and what isn't in what is now. We form great cathedrals of miniature statues; giants of men and hurricanes of women. It's never enough to not be then
and then never could hide well beneath old shadows.
The feeling at first is not unlike bending bone. The elm knows in violent spiraling, knuckles give and faith burns wildly in the corner.
I take a drink, and another.