There isn't another reason to be special. Why would we not sketch each other imaginary earrings and puffy alpaca socks and shamanic underpasses through the city? The preconstellated sky has gotten overconditioned, underperspirational. The galaxy is soup for the cat. We've fallen on soft floors and stairs. We've stubbed toes and fingers on the fluffiest and delicatest timepieces, crawled outside, and rolled down earthen bells. Back and forth, back and forth—like skateboarders on a half-pipe, wheels whistling like stemmed glasses half-entranced, half-alive.
?
Dignified rebellion
is a sort of sexy contemplation of busking plaster and busted clay,
but, but sunrise never stops. Every tickle of a star coming up
from the horizon, day or night, is sunrise.
