once again I’m brokenheaded and can’t seem to do a thing with the troublesome appendage. It flops about in peevish and aggravating fashion despite efforts to stoke it with chocolate and yellow lamplight. Train whistles pierce through and through, grey window condensation soaks it drearily. It hangs and flutters in rags about the shoulders, desperate for a mission and altogether ineffectual and undecided.
looking in and looking out