click-it-ty-click click-it-ty-click 

it's the echo in her head as her hands flip tense and click

from morn till night and from night till morn her hands are never still

she turns and turns looking for light even shade 

a spot of wet reflections to dive into and splash it all away to then lay quiet almost dead but not quite

in the blurred motion of her whirl of click-it-ty-clicks intending to breathe-it-All-In-breathe-it-All-Out 

the thick dense fog of life and its debris unfiltered curd in the stained gauze cheesecloth 

wondering always what it all means in the shade in the sun f8 and so on

afterwards looking up as it all were just a fogged-up lens covered in droplets of moisture blood sweat tearing up the plastic carcass      
 © om ulloa


“Writing is a form of therapy; sometimes I wonder how all those who do not write, compose, or paint can manage to escape the madness, melancholia, the panic and fear which is inherent in a human situation.” -Graham Greene (Ways of Escape)

entonces... escribir todo mi vómito-diarrea-baba emocional es bueno pa la salud, casi-casi una obligación conmigo misma y mi condición humana... que eso es lo que me sobra, humanidad. ¿ven, estimados trolls y mirahuecos por doquier, como todo tiene explicación...? ¡y científica!

Science says... writers-have-a-serious-advantage-over-the-rest-of-us