small stone, day eleven:
crusted with frost
makes each step sound
like little broken deaths
Don't know where that came from. I'm stuck in some kind of Martian imagery this week, and I imagined each blade of grass as a root-bound Martian, frozen by our strange weather (after all, it is red hot on their home planet), unable to move as paws and boots came down upon them.
Now I'm feeling bad for imaginary aliens!
Do you ever have moments of unexplainable anxiety? There's probably a pill for that. If I had insurance, I'd explore it. The taking of pills. As it stands, I'll try to slow my heart and remember that it's sunny out today, finally, and everything is fine. I swear.