Hurry up my trekking probe, selective voice, sing to Percy while writing in cursive. Your downtrodden response had a saintly glow like two-legged crickets who act as servants to your muse. You think too much of wandering, in an hour is distance. You put out your fist with a flip of a switch and carry blood vessels, for which a tree has no center or time for blood. His shape was the lamb threading his thumbs with a needle thinking of people together whose strings are thicker than you’d figure. Build anew and read from Perceval whose dragon once careening is faced with a value that he burns when he breathes while blowing.
This blog is a multifaceted writing/journaling approach to recovery from mental illness and addiction. I am not a comedian but rather a rattled jewel of sarcasm encased in art. Health, humor, and love is what I seek under the umbrella of family.
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Francis Erich McElroy 