In which, quiver young froth, we go about some arbitrary keepsake of habits: those in shiny shoes go about having those shoes shined by those with dirty shoes; the mouse playing “jip” with the lion; those with heartbeats playing “mythos” with the dead. To for as I wake and slumber see the world through rosy lenses, and to as I die all slowly take them off and see it as it is, I go and watch from heightened steps the cities far below this cloudscape dance and wrinkle off as lightforms as light forms.

We of elder tongues beseech the gods of Capitalism in spitting bright saliva onto thirsty garden beds. We blink and behave and smolder as burnt coals smolder as the flowers burgeon and swoon and blossom thusly their own unique shades of gargantuan colorism. We bend and kneel and soil our pantlegs and pick the flowers whose brightnesses match our own sentiment, and take the flowers and wrap them in plastic bouquet-wrap and place them on the graves of our loved ones of the elder tongues, who did the same for theirs, and theirs the same for theirs for theirs. We snarl widely at the fossil-fuel emissions burping by, at the cloudbellies of gradient clouds all varying so slightly it is impossible to tell which from which’s stratus locale. We clip and trim and bury our eyebrows in muck so as to make those slight exuviae of facial expression all the more precise: that they must know what we mean when we express what we think we mean.

So boyo in loose overalls, lend me your ear this one and sober time: lend me strength to tell you the things I cannot bear to say; lend me gooseflesh; lend me audible light. I beseech you. Give me hope again.