there is a certain weight to things through eyes that are weary, that are blotched and reddened, that are sore. there is certain way to talk without saying anything, there are certain words my tongue has trouble with. there is a certain regularity to things and a repitition and a way of finding a way through things, through weakness. there is the green canvas of lawn that is the park across the road that i cross to sit high on the chair every morning, watching the way the light plays games with the colour. there is the certain band of yellow that forms a stripe between houses, italianate, italianate, united. there is this neighbourhood, its progress and progression and the way that choosing the hard path is so much harder than the easy one. and the single solitary thing i will never understand is why would someone do that? why would they?