plod plod plod
if it was pitch that would be the only thing existing of me.
my wobbling pale flesh haphazardly shrouded in a small cape would be hidden. and not exist.
It is not pitch however, & i am wobble-plod, fabric-clutching my way up the street with a friend (and we are taking turns with out voices)
as we go i experiment & the wind plays along, a gust, a breast here, a thigh, a buttock there. and then for a spektator or temperature i rewrap.
We gigle at my pale flesh in this context, & i think about freedom & fear & spaces & friends
& we talk about things that are serious and true & not packagable, answerable or beautiful.
this is one of my barest friends, for whom no detail is embarass edited.
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