I am your neighbor. I have milk and tannins. I don't tan in the sun, just wilt like a burned rose. I have old curtains, abandoned glass bottles that began to live in the woods like a wolf-boy. I don't like new toys, or puppies. Just things with teeth sharp enough to pierce and spread root systems in my blood. I have counter current exchange of emotion, a bird leg of reason, and a deadly wine potion.
Am I the son of sadness, or one with hair of gold? All I know is I am your neighbor. I have soy and lichens. I eat frost in the taiga, cooking apples into prose.
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