robin, run, run, run, but i imagine amoeba make for bad pitchers since there is a certain rhythm and boredom to baseball that's captured here, waiting, waiting, prickling tears and sweating as memories are mixed between yearning and mourning the ritual or hating and admiring the mere concept of sport, such strong sweet sweat in the summer sun and the racist stadium and the dirt caked in clothes and skin.
but that's nothing for robin. combat, combat, combat.
masterclass. i might cry if i think about robin at the beach again. my new killjill fav.