Thoughts penetrate my mind like icicles sprouting from rooftops, cold to the touch, festive to see, and deadly when it comes to animated movies.

To tell you the truth, I don't know why I am writing this. With so much on my mind, one could say this is less poetry and more venting on paper, but in reality, who really gives a s— sometimes, I wish I could be a bird. The wind beneath my wings as I flap above the — wherever the hell the me-bird would fly in this hypo-poetical situation. Maybe Greece. Or my life. Or somewhere with air conditioning.

With my feathers and flight and new life and newfound sense of direction, I could get away from this place. But, as I think about flying, I am drawn back to my seat, a red couch covered in discarded skin and red food coloring and a deuces pillow. Ahead of me is a wooden table topped with glass, sand covering up trees long burnt away and slid over with icebergs that not even the strongest of acorns could do anything about.

I often find myself thinking about birds when I am inside. A concrete box of compressions and palpitations and one slice too many. Maybe a tattoo will hurt enough to make real wings come.

Feathers like quills to write, each one a new story, a new chapter, a new piece of me. A way to tell the truth to those who matter, a way to start anew without asking permission from, well, myself.

And, of course, eggs would come. Eggs with blue shells and white spots like blobs of mold on a luke-age carpet. At work, we aren't allowed to say the word mold so we say avocados or guac. After all, guac is extra and we are all paying a little bit extra for something.

The eggs are forgiveness. What from, I don't know, but forgiveness all the same. But, instead, I sit on my couch and drink a lemonade and think of flying away.