the wind howls. and i am sicker than ever. earlier i tried to climb into the sill. watch the trees wicked and wild in the storm dance. instead, i curled elbows to knees in the chair like a day-light-dog and cried to the sound of the cracks gulping air. if life were like a lime green sweater knitted by your grandmother than maybe there would be some comfort here. until you get home from work, i whimper low. long. into the texture of my skin. the strange freckled streets that run this head to toe.