I’m frozen in space,
my fingers numb with the cold,
as I write this note.
Do you yam your food,
yaffling delighted through it,
to be gutfoundered.
If you want to write,
for a story of some sort,
it’s because you’re called.
The cold night grasps me,
and I look in it’s darkness,
and feel a raindrop.
Hangers on my head.
and I don’t know where to go,
but I can’t hang here.
