Hotspur walks among us, and he knows it. In hopes of being truthful I wound who I love. My speech is too blunt, I come from a place where we speak so starkly that what we say is harder than what we mean when we walk in china shops. Aye, I move like a bull. I think I'll just shut-up again. My walls are bare and my bed is strange to me, thorugh it's new softness is sweet. (Thanks for bringing my stuff, Tey.) My secrets made part of the discourse as you flip through pages I'd assumed I could trust to stay closed, though I do understand it. I am not claiming to be a saint. At work I make chains of paper cranes for the sake of wishes. I'm not sure what I'm wishing for anymore.