Not Making Sense.

Sometimes I write things that barely make sense. Sometimes I like those things the most.

See a Sidhe.

What I are is forever. Some say fairy but aren't that, word is an ache. I am placement. A there-ing that exists local. Time is ebb and flow and I am here and now. Sometimes local is green and others stoney, sometimes wet sometimes yellow-dry. Now it is grey and full of broken boxes that quick ones live in.

            The smallyoung see so real, past the thither and into hither. Find me perched above a dead squirrel – my adversary for a day and ever. I win. It touched me and life ran out and into me.

            'Fairy!' made of flesh and waves.

            No!

            Realing out teeth. Twist air into sharps made to snap and bite small fingers.

            No.

            Such effort to real. No life in attack.

            'Fairy,' airtwist into words for them. Quick ones smiles.

            'Touch you?'

            Airtwist a yes.

            I win.

            So easy.

            Quick ones are no squirrels.

            What I are is forever.