The yarn that I spun for it three years ago is all knitted in. It is done enough.
It is wonky and wobbly, and full of beautiful colors.
I am allergic to Spring. The pollen and the meds that attempt to enable breathing have settled in.
Between the two, I feel as dull as toast, unable to wrap my mind around many words.
I will wrap this wrap (that I call "breathing") about myself, and stitch some more. Holding and breathing. A little cinnamon sugar upon my toasted self.
