wtf pwm

Felt

Parker Tettleton

My wife says I am the tip. Her skin is darker, hair blonder than ever before. We are somewhere in July, which has a place, this year: her uncle's condo. That he's departed has something to do with it, the knitting, and the knitting has something to do with our existent nothingness. If it's the cause of anything, outside of quiet afternoons inside, sipping to shadows on the walls, beyond all recycled associations, is anyone's guess. Mine is, in and of itself, it's nothing. Nothing in a sea of nothings. Nothing at the top. Nothing at the bottom. Nothing passing. Nothing for today. Nothing for tomorrow. Nothing forever. Nothing ever would be because nothing is. She, of course, could be right about nothing. Nothing felt.

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