Here i sit,
Sat staring out the window,
The outside full of naught but air,
Hot and dry, yet rarely alight,
And a little moisture,
On the window sill, there, set,
Condensed here, perhaps,
By selfish yearning.
There and then,
Staring backward into fog,
Though the fog is of certain,
Naught but illusion,
Or, I suppose, so I am told.
Bodily life is p gay fam, ngl.