Not intentional. Not nearly. Almost always not.

You don’t know what to do with tarragon. Could make an incision in a man’s brain to see his decision making. Reshape people’s faces for a living.

Say you’ll wait ’til after, so you’ve eaten the steak, paella, lasagne. But you blurt it out like an answer in class, put on the spot by a teacher sure you don’t know answers. But you know some, knew some.

Wish everyone understood action’s aren’t meaningful, defy definitions, and the clean cut life they’re all after is a thing of the past, the fifties, and even then, most times, was a lie: case in point, Betty Draper.

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