"Is This Fiction?"
My arms are cold in a way that they never have been before. The sky tilts and reminds me that finger-picking is, in fact, still an art that deserves rescuing from the mincing dictates of so much indie pop. Then, too, I recall my own struggles with what it is to be masculine, and what I derogatorily castigate as effeminate. Yes, despite my bedding-down in the locus of progressivity, I am beset by personal insecurities, the very manifestations of which have caused my torsic appendages this chill which prompted my prompt. But I am seeking home in the cold of my own creation, which itself will be transformed one way or another in the coming hours.