on outrageous fortune...

HAMLET.

To be,

as you know,
there are more questions than that
and they loom over your head and into the fine stretch of night where
your father wanders. Sometimes he is a question and sometimes he is
an assumption, but either way his presence finds the means to burn, so
you suppose that things could be narrowed down. A void that curls around your
head

the color of dried blood.

Your tongue tucked into the corner of your mouth,
and other stories.