I'll spare you the minor mundane boring mediocre daily interests or troubles, minutae irrelevant, for the weight of your own timely scythe is enough, and I know that like I know the retina burn of you, watching you to read you for any signs, any distemper, any frowns or impatience. Hush, hush. Shall you show your contempt? Shall it burn? yes, it will and it did. Eggshells beneath my bare feet, and I know you, and I listen.

It's not easy. I'm feeling distracted and heavy, and unexpectedly lost my balance, feeling like I was pushed.

And should I shall I will I edit this a hundred more times, worrying about it? I don't like second-guessing. I don't like it at all.