Busily you chase anything that moves, If you could live in a zoo, your days flitting from creature, to the climbing frame of nature: Trees, earthy mounds, explosive sounds Decking the air as the Mousse pronounces his mating grounds.
Mating season peaked at 33, Tolstoy says it's a coming of age, wait, that's Tolkien, Ain't that the case.
Now I can't connect with that place, that age of 33, where marriage and Uni and me me me was all I focused on. Now I barely think at all, to focus on the detail would be sublime.
But you're so busy: chasing the dog; stamping your feet; trying to help me perform the simplest of tasks with such enthusiasm to un-do all I do do.
I think you're trying to help.
I hate it.
'Why do you have to do that?' I calmly seer through gritted teeth as you look up with that, here-we-go-again look and your mini judgement whacks me.
How do I do this gently?
There must be a way.