Not done, progress like honey. Back and forth with my time. A hole where winter lays, your blind dog trapped in it and barking. Tell yourself a story just to keep any story going. Warming wax at your bedside every morning. Nobody speaks towards you, you still listen. Progress like honey, a ritual, still living. Pull on the threads, eyes burning pull them all out to do it again. Get it right, let the wax drain on the pillow. Dreams are like lace and ice cream to the endless loop, one more step towards reason, one more hand reaching out.