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I counted out the steps, my boots stomp thirty paces, due east from one carved, sap covered tree to the next, wondering all the unsteady way if you were there before, when I looked around at the start, were you like me, in rags, holding out your bowl waiting to be filled? Oh yes, with that clay bowl you shaped in the long night hours, molded with determined fingers glazed with your rich, red blood burnt and fired in your own ridiculous molten tempest. I pause and vomit, hands on knees retching over and over spewing wildflowers onto the ground that are already germinated and blooming in purple and turquoise shining through the mucus and the bile. I carve another tree, pressing down splitting bark scoring with steel, then another thirty paces toward the rising sun over and over in endless mess. Can you feel the cement, coagulating around your feet? Are you finding it hard to move freely? I am. I watched you withdraw and shade your passion with pencil scratches fading from this, from my world and one of my petals died butter orange turned grey and crispy it saddened me greatly...