oh, let me be extraordinary just this thrice and we came out of the same river, i think and i say it like it'll mean something to the dead poet. i am not the dead poet, please understand. me and l- me and we're all coming out of the same dirt i guess. i'm trying to change a bit, let the drip of coffee slide down the side of the pot, instead of licking it up, my tongue burning as it fuses with the glass; i got nailpolish on my finger, not the nail and I thought it was going to be blood but it was just paint. turns out im not left handed that's all. am i becoming glass? i would say yes but I don't know how glass is made.