beauty is not for the fat. And I don't mean that in the literal way. Surprisingly it is not for the
bold, the strong willed, the ever pleasant pulpy state of mind of knowing exactly what you want. And it is not the direct opposite of all these things either. Beauty stands in the margins, it seeps and settles, it is the jello in the cracks. While pedigree and the fieriness of ambition cakes a human solidly like pig marrow, beauty is hardly present.
I find it harder and harder to write-and- it used to move so easily from me. Now its like drawing the last ghosts from aching, archaic pipes deeply rooted in musty earth. The foundation curls from the ground, rusting with the surrounding leathery mud and it forges a stationary article with little actual present force. My words resemble a museum like resilience and stagnancy.

I'm a clothed shell.

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