i am a puddle, and she is the rain as it falls. she is praised
and i am avoided and stepped around, stepped through, only
accidentally. i have grown weak with everyone's distaste of
me and grown brown with the mud that has been dragged
through my existence. i will make you spotless, again. is that
what you think of me? is that what i say to you?

just come through, come through.


november four