a slow tumble of something long constrained is gathering within me. each day teases out a little more, a sentence, a paragraph, words springing ever-quicker to my fingertips, as if they were seeds, dormant inside me and by tending them they have sprung to vinehood, unfurling vigorous tendrils inside my being.
florid, prosy tendrils.
it is a sense of small miracle.
i am off to a party. girding my loins. i'm not sure exactly what that entails but i like the sound of girdlement. a little constrictive. a little saucy. slash sexy.
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