Hot pink arrows glow and show the way to the ravine of raves in the orchard of my 71st year. What futuristic ballet will require us to register to feel the wind on our backs, and then bend us until our change falls out? Anachronistic society still wears gleeful republic garb, but inside parasitic politicians patrol the boundaries of the public body. I will dance or I will be damned. God, in his suit of 4 leaf clovers and purple legacy, gave me a song with my name engraved inside.
Miniature Moon 