THE WORDS FOR ME TO HEAR

Nothing worth flagging has crystallized and yet I feel the urge to type: a lining especially hard to shed. It cast me into the neverwhere long enough ago to stop struggling against its timelessness and this irrational (ridiculous, to use my word) tickling it offers. Tickling pinkish in aura, begs to be said. Funny weird. I used the –ish deliberately, but not purposely. Let’s not be too flashy about all this, I say. Just a hint or two. No alliteration, no rhyme, no emphasis or driving at anybody’s sense of orientation. The itchy pinkishness seems to be the sole reason for writing that won’t bleach. Perhaps it’s better this way. Bleaching sterilizes the fabric, after all.