Addled light beams curve around me as though I were winding like a mountain road and made of glass. Wherever I am, I am not. What is it to be in a place? I miss the homey vernacular of my youth. Customs coat us in sticky colors that ultimately create us. Row your boat gently down the stream. But life is not a dream. It is an exam most will fail. I get seasick. My legs are stems, and I am an amalgamation of flowers clamoring over one another to be heard before dark rolls in like a crime scene cleanup crew, removing my essence.
Miniature Moon 