I am a modest house, a house solely notable for the fact I lived here once. Its brass plaque depicts an oxygen eye in which two pupils of hydrogen dance. Downstairs is where I lit fires whose insights with approach-velocity froze me, then singed off into flame. This always happened when I came close to a truth. Months passed. Years. Nights. Shall I accommodate myself again, a humble aquarium of lordly thumbs, some fin de species? Of course each word the blackout-moth mutters to my keyboard shows the snowiest letter on this page is "I"-- must I now plumb its one remaining pane?
Added: 20 Feb 2002 | Last Read: 27 Jan 2021 4:50 AM | Viewed: 5238 times
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