The Proverbial Apple

The apple is cold and smooth in the palm of my hand. It tastes of pale green glass as clear as ice. This is what the King wants. The proverbial apple.

I don't know why I have it. But it is not meant for him.

When it falls it catches the light and spins and spins. When it breaks, clean in two, there is no sound. The two pieces lie on the ground, still beautiful, still perfect.

There are kings that are demons and angels who are carved of black rock and have silver lights for veins.

But the dream ends there and confuses itself as I wake.

Let her Speak

I like many things. That's different from wanting things. I like bubblegum and anime and existential philosophy. I like music and singing where no one can here me and dreaming of floaty things that spiral and swindle.
It's like spiders sometimes with silver and snares and small twinkling lights.

I let her out sometimes or she gets mad.