Sasha Steensen Sentences on Sadness

I admit I have been terribly sad.

While writing this sentence, I am weeping.

The danger is that the situational, slowly, but always, becomes habitual.

That awkward figure, God, made us coats of skins.

We make our children coats of skins too.

Sensical, borne as she was from nonsensical, floats above and beyond her
mother.

What is left is like a mist hovering, threatening not to disappear, and
threatening in its disappearance.

I am worried about worry, what it does to the body, to the psyche.

How it has its way with me while I sleep, while I winnow down the list,
while I wipe more asses than I own.

I was told that there are activities better done for twenty minutes every
day than for hours once a week.

In this way, perhaps writing and exercising are akin to crying.


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