Could you hand me the small packet of miraculous insight laying down by the invertebrate river, meandering as it does through the mind, curving and cutting the manly wild of flower soaked land? My father buried an axe here. My mother, a key. In the cool dawn of my effervescent identity, a strange blue wailing I only recognize later as my name. Hungry, the moon descends to feast on the horrified dark. The sun illuminates you and me now, honest as soap stripping away filth. Hand me the packet. I am going to see the color of angels.
Miniature Moon 