Nothing at all 4

You were brought up against yourself and were only a Peter Pan waiting for no tomorrow. We forget what that was for but it remains true; much truer – that they do it all the time. There’s no expression left: only some stuff and stuff and mugs and indents on the surface of the surface. They lead to themselves endlessly; but I lead myself to you the way you pull at me like my motor’s dead. Let me craft a shitty rickshaw and be a 1000 horsepower pair of legs that run away from me. I’m made of broken up vertebrae for you to press up against, something the wind can never rattle. I can travel the whole world and unravel myself like an useless ball of twine. Day after day, I will suffer out of suffering and retrieve that bit of luck the wind used to carry. Nothing that’s simple is all that good; and what’s good is only strange though we feel unwell. We’re sick and desperate for that hand to lay on our sleeve and leave an immeasurable imprint that lingers like your tender thighs and your scent that runs from your forehead down to your cheek. What is that?