Tidal dreams of octopi slip-slurping over slippery stones in pools of liquid crystal flood my mind. Love is prehistoric and present. In the dead of night, my lover will come to be on a magic carpet remnant from Floors R’ Us. In the honesty of daylight, something with seven more brains than I have listens to me spin my yellow yarns, wondering why my stories are so simplistic.
Miniature Moon 