••To be an incomplete poem•• Tasting dust in small quantities, merrily converting to dust myself. I remain and recline cry and crow, yet not a drop of ink and joy drops on my harsh surface. | Caption| ••To be an incomplete poem•• Tasting dust in small quantities, merrily converting to dust myself. I remain and recline, cry and crow, yet not a drop of ink and joy drops on my harsh surface. I sit by the window, waving to distinct
