i evolve when tendrils of history come to find me. the edges of its feet find me, toe me around, but i will not stand for it. i will parada it in its face, if it had a face, where the toes actually belong.
i sound like flamenco against glass when you find me again,
and i will not move,
i’m like Frank Sinatra’s song,
but actually immovable and unstoppable
at the same time.