I have no patience and no brightness.
I don’t like things, or see them well. I think I might be shaded, or in the shade, or fitted into a place so closely I can’t turn my head.
I am. In one sense I am.
At the very least I know I like my feet, and I like my coal-burning face and my power arm-stomping cowlick. And I like the wonder-making in this leftover body.
What is that? Is that a mooring or a FLEEING?
But most of all I am afraid. I am terrified. So I close it, and I sleep behind. It is a good sleep. It is a dream sleep. It is a vanilla sleep. 
Dear guarded city, I am waiting here behind.
Take me back.
