streams of streams

j'aime une flic. sapientia is beguiling; we assume, for instance, the myth of coffee and cigarette. we merely repeat. the record ain't broken, it just grew wings and flew away. yes, i see her, she's right in front of me - this not in the metaphorical or idealistic sense but regarding questions of sensation, you must surmise. her directness is a gun. once i saw her rack the slide of a shotgun back and aim it at the wall. i felt a rush like blood. i realized, narrative the cloak fell crumpled around my ankles, then i was naked, i realized. my hair continued to grow, my fingernails and what's left of my toes. it grew all over me in soft vines. there was a strange reasoning on the wind, words wanted to follow words of their own genus, something continued that i wanted to resist, or resisted by impulse. how does this follow? it doesn't. go the other way.