Fear of feed

First fire on the wire. Plugged into bright emptiness. Full notebook weeps as my tips stumble. Joy of chaos is saddle worn and all my tricks are barn sour. Gonna have to ride this one in without reins of any sort. Sock full of soap and a real rain. Sloshing in my saddle, lost but for the slant gaze. Fear of feed makes not my steed weep. Not such a short ride as I cross the arid absence of your imagination.