a perfect percentage sign, drawn in RED chalk, on a concrete wall

a toy block castle made of interlocking pieces, pieces that hurt when you step on them with the, in my case wide, fleshy part of your foot between your heel and the balls of your toes; a stack of old compact discs with dust and scratches sandwiched unto themselves; a nearly filled black journal with a binding that was recently repaired with shoe sole adhesive; a lens blurred; a desk corner that i told you to watch yourself on and that your thigh met with the most resistance possible even if that is an asinine hyperbole; a moonset that gives rise to a squeaky bedframe despite being boxspringless; a perfect percentage sign, drawn in RED chalk, on a concrete wall; an exact duplication of your smile from eighteen months and seven days ago; a hypoglycemic index of some nonsensical amount and pronunciation; a manila folder that has a tab full of annoying creases that look like hand lines (you will have two children); a switching of window treatments; a 60 mL plastic cup, plastic that smells like plastic; an overabundance of frayed fibers in our midst; a simple lack of simple patience; a teetering array of free vases donated by the defunct florist; a day-old everything bagel; a warmed forearm spot on the surface of a particle board desk.