A Post of Winter

A thousand heavy secrets on my head, filed away into organic storage rooms, resistant to flood (non-polar molecules don't dissolve in polar solvents) Spillling warm coins out of my pocket on my bathroom table. For a second I thought I was beautiful. Sleep minutes are being wasted in these thoughts. this procrastiination. I wish I were working at Saigon House so I could observe all the boys that come in, black hair, lazily closing their eyes at tired winter sun and try and catch their thoughts, passing them bowls of glittering pho The sun blinked it's way up and down the blinds but I was in between four walls with no windows. Long-yuan has made me acquire periods of being calm and composed. Choked resignation, I guess. I have run out of thoughts, and I let my head be filled with other's emotions and problems. Let them think what they want. Love has no point anyways.