Now submit.  Submit.  Sub mit.   To the hours, the stairs  the uncertainty of the floor tilting beneath your raised foot. To echoes of whirling voices, dissonance and rain bouncing  on borrowed graves. To pushing, pausing  wondering if this holds meaning  or sympathies for floppy haired fascism.    We do…

oh yes, I miss you your untamed wilderness severed from the outside with reverent vibration awareness soft feet on woolen floors the myriads of scents you share bursts that murmur hands that hold and dare with no pretense fragments of a story never told but sensed in your enchanted underworldly…