I dream in short bursts, legs kicking and tongue wagging at the thoughts that bounce through the deepest parts of my evening – simply put, it’s violent, and equations and microscopes are poor tools.
How do you measure the surprise of a tourist; the hospitality of a southerner; the life of a candle?
In the angle of photographs?
In whispered thank yous?
I wish we knew how to measure the pause of a comma, cause I hate getting it wrong.
I wish we knew how to measure importance, cause we’d get more done.
Even words are often too thin for the feel of blood, electricity, and bone.