I love lists. The act of making, recording, rereading them. Such transparent sentient entities, aren’t they? Soothingly straightforward, sensibly organized. Agendas free of pretense, priorities wisely counted, arranged without guilt.
And yet, guilty is what I am today because there were other sentient beings between us I never counted, nor bothered to list.
My wishes. Your fears. My secrets. Your truths.
My dreams. Your eyes.
I miscalculated, you see. My lists were numerous, but feelings outnumbered.
~ 76 words ~