I become overconfident when something is already wrong,
like snow flying out the tires onto my boots
or trying to tell an asphalt story and dissolving to abstraction.
It's slippery that way, ice. Ready to wriggle out from rubber's
grip and send an elbow-first message to a complex
multicellular catechism: How we got here? Wanted and went
out to where hot drinks are, even as there were also where
we came from. Head strawba, or that's what the misty
minded after-art impressed into letters and cloud forests.
Roman Ryan 