In the sparkling air, with me, floating there, with naught but a care for the swirling inferno of bluebirds all attached at the wingtips, interlocked in a fearsome formation.
Criss crossing my eyes a way no one could possibly say was natural, or by chance, or even pretty to look at.
I shaved the gooseflesh on my back, gritted my eyes, and stepped down out of the maelstrom into the world of over reading expressions and eyebrows and shaving mine off so no one knows what I'm thinking.
Go ahead and eat up buddy. It'll fill your belly and give you something to fall asleep on, waking up tomorrow with fresh goals and cardboard burps through the dull throbbing immaculate spin of the lesser orb.
Believe it or not, after all this trouble, Jimmy down the street still doesn't know how to triangulate the distance between care-free and unconscious.
You won't even be around to regret it while the world sloshes around, flailing for the life buoy with short quick breaths and dead eyes. Little dense flocks of birds flitting about overhead between unseen resting spots somewhere deep in the roasted horizon, where the edges of the map are grizzled and cracked.
In this sleepy little world of sheets and humming fans whirring air across the rug onto my face, reclined on the pummeled pigeon-down pillow, lined with only the best rat fur monopoly money could buy in those damp fog-soaked days when it was wise to breathe out more than in if you had any lung control left, or access to a nice pair of bellows.
