My clock is always wound, no time to let the seconds tick away. I grew used to letting the moss gather. a fern bending to the touch of the unfamiliar. I long to be sought through the spyglass of the one I love. To be habitually loved is not enough. To habitually love another is not good enough either. The spirit of the pigment I have accepted as my own, embraced abroad, swirls in a rainstorm down the sewer systems of a town I wish to walk in at night time.