Literary Work
I Think I’m Getting Weirder Stephen Mead
Starting to love dust, nothing dangerous, just how it floats, continuously miniscule ‘til there’s 3 feet of flecks. It’s becoming part of my element the way pastels always were just colored powder, the layered surfaces in a swirl, all existence composed of dots... That’s what emotions touched except then the walls grew— Every stuck up paper breathing its picture like a forest, or person. That’s when plants also had eyes, listened by watching with something to tell pulling me into these hallways ignorant of how much the hues would one day take over.
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