nothing really matters. not the crows poised trilling with neat claws and important feathers in the corridor drenched with expired notice boards. not the pale white light boasting leftover liquid cereal on dark nights of slobber spinning drunk over sloshy rain slabs and honks that pull you up. not the Kiss, or the sheets that sheltered you both soft for a time. not the cupboards upon cupboards, of cold stale and printer paper, of you nine years old and smiling with silk at the jarring jolts of making. thinking how something so crammed tight with everything, and everything, ends swiftly like a clap a crow's head tilt to the last laugh a sharp unravel to the deep well of endings. -sgh AN: not sure. why don't you tell me what you think?