Stale lightning works its way through my daily bread like fungal rhysomes. In the valley between my breasts, supine visions of cotton candy carnivals. Here in the molten core of ourselves, we can be absolved of our eccentricities in this solar system of sameness, revolving as it does around boiling coinage. Soon our daily water will grow up to be rain. It will fall into the sea, laughing.
Miniature Moon 