Your friends are influential but only just so. Winter rain has you by the infra-spinatis, that muscle half neck, half arm, and you forget three books as you stand by the window and consider the merits of weeping.
I think I will weep for you, my sadly bundled flesh. And I might also cry for my soul but it’s a no go–the soul is engaged, testing the nimbostratus, gliding like the tall, electric jelly fish she really is.
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Planet of the Blind 