It’s raining.

I’m sitting at an old card table typing on someone else’s computer

I hear noises from the kitchen.

This is not my house.

Where am I?

But seriously, what has my life become.

Am I singing on the inside or crying on the outside.

Am I really happy or just convincing myself of a very clever lie.

Who really knows me? I’m not included on that list.

Turtles. They are covered in bacteria.

Wonderfully and wholesomely benign.

And yet majestically abrasive.

And totally random.