I found a slit of paper buried between the rust colored sheets of my bed. The size was fit for a Chinese fortune, it read: "'…weaving a home out of poor materials.' 115" and I wondered what it was from but then instead, decided to provide a place for it to go:
Swerving the cones you imagine on the road
You’re missing the lines with your tires by inches
Your inchoate ideals build a faulty base
One hundred and fifteen ideas misplaced
Stacked poorly, the soggy logs of your logic–
One weaving a home out of poor materials.
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