This isn’t about depression.
This isn’t about my non-desire to grace the pages of the internet.
This isn’t about Emilie Autumn’s review that never was, at the end of a comatose day.
This isn’t about how small my pupils are now that I am free from the stocks at the Galleries of Justice.
This isn’t about misplaced horniness.
This is about poultry missing knitwear.
Dreaming of Maria Callas, whoever she is.