I must be good and read all the stuff ,in my good moments and moral- bound or in a quid pro quo of mutual backs .That is when someone feeds my kickass stuff with his promises of eyes and fingers.
I have promises to keep but no miles. All I ask is can I do with a touch of breeze and blow wintry breath gently on them?
The pages crackle ,open and shut , their fonts unfold, pages down and across, their letters making ant-lines to holes ,holes already filled with my stories .
There are no more holes down there.