How often do we make us do?
How often do we move ourselves when we just want to sit?
When there's no will to get up and go?
When inevitable is a cold awkward fish bowl.
When the thought of ensuing chitter chatter makes stomach ache and eyes blink and pits to sweat.
How many others suffer in silence?
The suffering of awkwardness.
A luxury, I'm sure.
Fifteen years ago Sabbaths lost their rest.
From sleeping in MTV surfing to small talk, snotty noses and see you next week strangers' hugs.
I'd rather...
Not have to think on it.
Not have to dread it.
Not have to make self to move.
If it looked like...
Others preferred over the self.
Scincere concern for next week stranger.
A refuge from all week's small things.
Maybe it could be an extension of sweet walk in riches.
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