Write. Outside this window lies the world.

A drunk bee stumbles from stem to bloom to other blooms.

Sideways falling,

floating through this purple plant with beak-shaped cups.

Froom.

Sharp zagging mass.

Wings at 80 flaps per second.

Per second.

The day is gold and shadow.

Deep-blue sky, back-dropped by space.

The flapping of the face-sized pad of petaled flower makes me see people

that aren’t there.

 

My mind wanders to other things.

Having highly hoped he’d helped his hapless humors.

 

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