Love isn’t static
No, it evolves,
waxing and waning
to an uncertain end.
It can fade,
or it can continue to grow
and become something
truly wondrous.

The ever-present callow youth,
entangled in the adult's web,
the strictures of life.
He seeks release
Love, oh careless love.

Entangled in the adult's web,
Caught in the  gravity of the mundane,
the full weight of responsibilities
looking for a stellar escape, ad astra.
Love, oh careless love

Escaping the gravity of the mundane
Answering the siren's call
A tropical island, a free life
Sun-kissed and no obligations
Love, oh careless love

Oh, the siren's call,
The adult hears but knows
This  Forbidden fruit--
It's is just a dream
Morning will ground him again,
But oh Love, that Careless Love.

My first day modeling for Monsieur Magritte,
he asked me to take off my clothes,
and stand facing the easel.
During the next break, I snuck a peek.
There I was , fully clothed,
wearing a bowler
but, instead of a face,
there was a green apple.

As I found out, this was typical.
I have posed as a tree,  and a cat in a hat.
My shadow has been a window.
My face has been a bird,
My torso a bird cage,
A pipe was an organic extension of my nose.

I never understood why he needed a model at all,
perhaps an immediate someone to share his visions.
The money was good, and I faked it.
Wouldn't you?

I’m now sure it was a dream,
but then I was 11 and it was real.
I’m still drawn to the memory.

We lived on the edge of the country on a gravel road.
The country started just beyond the back yard
— a brackish pond with a hint of sulfur.
150 South Cooper.

I rode my bike on the marge,
a little harder, but smoother,
and not as dusty as the road.
Left at the corner,
west along the corn fields.
Vivid greens in the sun.

One or two more turns
and along side was a shade tree,
just across the ditch.
I put the bike to the ground
and sat in the shade.
I’ve never known such peace,
either before or after.
Time passed, supper called,
I reluctantly pedaled home.

Several times that summer
I tried to find that place,
but I never could.

There’s a monument at the end of the trail less traveled.
Solemn, incised in stone, it reads,
“This is the end of the trail.
Did it meet or exceed your expectations?”

Before the sun, before the birds--
The porch calls. The raw spring earth.
Reflection time.

A jogger's headlight dances down the street.
He doesn't nod, I don't wave.
Solitude.

T'was the day before aluminum.
And all through the towns
Steel fantasies did roam,
All finny at thousands of pounds.

Lots of metal, heavy and sculpted.
No custom kits, just regular Detroit iron,
The Mesabi Iron Range leveled and scalped.

Fins, I say, fin, fins and finny.
You could stab yourself on a '57 Chevie!

Sleek, but massive,
Caddie fins with bullet tail lights
Rare Edsels and Packards

Thunderbirds, killer headlights to match the fins
Remember the Rambler!

Knife edges everywhere, the Studebaker Fury
Corvettes, vruum, vruum, VRUUUM.

Beloved Impalas, Rocket 88's,
Imperials and Mark III Continentals

Where did we go in these steel confections...
Drive-ins, both food and movie,
Down Main Street to be seen,
Back to be seen again, groovy

We had pimples and ducktails, 
hoping to meet girls,
but the cars had fins of steel!
And they were the magnets.

You will become rich
You will become poor
You will eat an apple
You will swallow the core

My muse
took a snooze

My road is not a highway, well-traveled and straight.
Nor does it meander through the woods or follow a country brook.

No, it's often like a cave with short horizons;
And when there is a fork, I take it.

A taunt and a challenge
Roll down the hill in a rusty 55-gallon drum
No brakes  just trees
A bumpy jumpy rolly ride
Disorienting dizzying
Hit a tree spin out
Bruised and staggering
Stumble and fall.
Where is the bravery-stupidity line?
At the top of the hill.

"Nayah, chickenshit"
A taunt and a challenge
Roll down the hill inside a rusty 55-gallon drum
No brakes just trees

A taunt and a challenge.
A bumpy jumpy rolly ride
No brakes just trees,
Disoriented and dizzy

A bumpy jumpy rolly ride
Hit a tree, spin out,
Disoriented and dizzy,
Bruised and curled up.

Hit a tree spin out.
Crawl out of the barrel
Bruised, stand and stagger,
Stumble and fall.

"Nayah, chickenshit"
Where is the bravery-stupidity line?
At the top of the hill.

Night of the morning of short knives,
drills and screws, glue and cadaver bone

Early to bed- Ha! in bed all day.

Eyes closed, mind Percocet blank…
Fully dressed— bare **** gown, oxygen monitor, IV, **** bag, wound drainage can.

Oxygen monitor beeps and flirts with 89%
Silencing deep breaths, Buddha breaths.

What’s with my tummy, **** or not?
soothing infusion, preventive IV drip

Vital visits (4), blood pressure,
pulse (yes), and extra oxygen check.

More oxygen beeps.
If it beeps and no-one comes, does it count?

Three drainage dumps,
Purple red spattered gown and sheets

The inept vampire lady appears.
Can’t see, feel, or find a vein.

First of two that night, the glucose *****.
Revenge, the ******* offered.

The empty IV machine beeps back at the oxygen monitor

The sting of a forced catheter.
Have a pill, dear, you’ll just *** blue

Another anti-**** infusion.
Maybe if I could sleep it would all go away.

It’s four am and not a wink.
And here come the hiccups.

Beeping oxygen monitor, barfie tummy, drainage dumps, vampire lady, sugar *****, blue ****, empty IV, hiccups and a partridge in a pear tree.

But I’m probably getting better.

im numb
the *******
have won

I don’t think anyone lives a normal life—
One New Normal becomes the next New Normal.
Birth, accidents and illness, death, marriage, children, divorce, a new job, a new place to live.

There is only the Now Normal.
Like straight sections of a road between curves—
the Now Normal responds to a big change
and lasts until the next big challenge.

The normal, as spoken of,
is a predictable pattern of days.
Is that even desirable?
What would life be without changes that test us?
Nietzsche had a point:
“What doesn't **** us makes us stronger”.

Maybe change is the real normal.

Written by Jim Beaupre on this 474st* day of the current Now Normal.
Or it it the first day of the new Now Normal?

* February 9, 2020 - May 27, 2021.

The diameter of the quest pointed indirectly into the fog.
The fog that hid the ****** damsel, captive, far from home
With my trusty blade and my rusty horse,
my  whole mission, saving the princess.
My sword slammed into dragon, far and sqware.
I packaged the carcass, put it on the curb, and grinned.

Paintings delight my eye and ignite my imagination: Devotional icons, the omni cubist view, the brazen eyes of Whistler and Manet; and Monet's lilies.

The perspectives of the renaissance and the violence of Caravaggio; the lush glowing skin of Rubens' nudes; and more!

I celebrate the intellects that created these.

Impressions of Philadelphia: May 20-8, 2023

A masked saint dressed in dollar bills. Stuffed rice *****.  Cannolli. Italian street  festival

Bentley and Porsche. Bright sequins everywhere. Side-slit, backless, plunging. Metal detectors. Prom night downtown.

On the median, a barber and a man. Haircuts for the homeless.

Black tattoos, ankle to cheek. Dark lips. Green and blonde hair.  Who needs a bra? City girl, Philly girl.

Bike paths everywhere downtown. Few bikes but lots of scooters.  Lancaster county too.

Belly button here, belly button there, here a navel, there a navel, everywhere navel-navels. Philadelphia Innies ‘n outies.

Bright colors, weathered colors. Loving, nurturing, and plain strange.  Gayborhood murals.

1st post master, mapped the gulf stream, lightening catcher, 9 Atlantic crossings. “I never discovered anything, I just made it useful”. Ben Franklin.

Overnight parking $300. At the Delaware, across from Camden.

The Rocky statue outside the art museum, golden Diana within.

Statues hanging from every other building. Avenue of the Arts.

Drexel, Temple, U-Penn. Unsolved murders. The campuses.

ATV rodeo every night. Rrrumm, rummm!  Broad Street after 6.

Phillies 12 - Cubs 3. $8 hotdogs. Citizens Bank Field.

“All things considered, I’d rather be in Philadelphia”. W.C. Fields

I hate whiney relationship poems--
By the poem’s middle-- I seldom further get--
I know the poet’s a narcissistic selfish twit.

A big stuffed noodle,
but stuffed with what?
Pumpkin, cheeses,
basil spiced chicken,
a bit of meatball.
But not altogether.

Dressed in olive oil,
plop in my mouth,
close my eyes and savor,
tongue, palette, lips.
Amen.

Dreams curl away,
Eyes blink open, toes wiggle.
It's morning, ready or not.

Honest distortions emerging from the distance of time.
Thoughts on poor decisions and worse outcomes.
The thin comfort of fading memories.
Every now and then.

In Sevastopol harbor*
on a glittering day,
the shiny, refurbished, 
***** and span 
missile cruiser Moskva 
blocked the harbor?
Sailors stood on deck 
in formation,
saluting and marching.
Small boats (two) 
circled the ship 
on mystery missions.
Makework for sure.

And not a ship or boat
could leave the harbor
for hours.?
A few days later, 
our little cruise ship
sailed the Black Sea.
Lo and behold,
the Moskva, pride of the fleet
shadowed and playfully 
circled us,
and then sailed away,
leaving us uneasy.

What we saw was a dry run,
just a practice.
The next year, the Moskva
again blocked the harbor,
penning in 
the Ukrainian navy,
as Russia invaded Crimea.

The Moskva is sunk.
Sorry for the sailors,
But adios, 
Bully of the Black Sea.
Rat *******.

Erwin, bitte, bitte!
I guess I should have told you first
when I found your missing diary.
So here I am, stuck in the kitty SuperMax.

Yes, I am Schroedinger's cat
trapped in a box with
food, water, and air--
and an infernal machine.
There's no way out--
no litter box either.

I assure you that I'm alive-- for now--
But I wonder about the world outside--
Does it persist, has it vanished--
or is it in a more indeterminate state?

If anyone is out there, please LET ME OUT!
Because life goes on— for a while,
How about some kitty litter, Bitte Schön?

Bang! bang! went the screen door,
"Don't slam the door!", my mother.

Decades later...

Bang! bang! went the screen door,
Sounds like heaven to me!

Looking in all the wrong places
In Boston, I shared a bed with a stranger,
In New Orleans, it was rope...
In Memphis, I sat with a stray cat,
I smoked-- the cat did nat...
Just trying to lose the loneliness blues.

2. It’s just around the corner
a warm night in spring
flowers fragrance the air
is this the one?

3. The 90-day half-life
From like rabbits to sustainable passion,
The “inluvy” hormones
are nearly as exhausted as we
Time to work on friendship,
 and commitment to our future.

4. On the shoals
"It wasn't what was said, it was what wasn't said"
negative space shaping the conversation--
dancing, flitting from safe to safer,
like stepping stones across an angry creek,
we just try to get by.

5. An assessment
Love isn’t static
No, it evolves,
waxing and waning
to an uncertain end.
It can fade,
or it can continue to grow
and become something 
truly wondrous.

6. Live and let live
Hanging the toilet paper roll,
evil sister-in-law peeve.
Yes, the toilet seat thing.
A sock warming a room corner.
Not ******* on screwtops 
The toothpaste top, classic.
Every flat surface a shelf,
every car trunk a closet

7. Requiem
Alone again
I miss my friend

Their names are:
Katie, Bobo, Bear--
Max and Buddy,
Sushi and
Grafin Hegwig von Stubenrein*,
Hedy for short.

For 30 years, dachshunds, chihuahuas
and miniature schnauzers.

Chihuahuas are definitely
the undercover dogs,
but dachshunds will burrow too.

Hedy and Buddy at the foot
of the bed, cross- and lengthwise.
Bobo too, but anywise.

Sushi and Max like it
when we sleep on our sides--
preferring the crooks of the knees.

Katie was an armpit dog.

Dogs are mobile and in a pinch
do double duty as a heating pad--
but a cold nose on bare skin
is welcome in the heat of the summer.

Night or nap, the company is welcome--
Did we rescue them or did they rescue us?

Strobing flashes in the clouds,
Thunder rolling through the hills.
Dust puffs with the first drop--
The promise of grass and prairie flowers.

strong coffee to stay alert
protein and poetry for strength
hard times are coming

The spring equinox has fertility festivals,
but the autumn equinox is less fun--
At best, thanks for enough food for winter.

But a few people still gather at
Stonehenge, Machu Picchu and Chichen Itza,
looking for special shadows or their lack,
or to watch the sunrise between two stones.
In Japan, Buddhists watch the sunset
in the due west where the afterlife is.

It's the beginning of the end of the year,
Nature getting ready for winter --
Trees begin their hibernation,
but dress in their best.
Insulated from nature's beauty,
we watch football. Roll Tide.

The Standard Model is full of sticky, quirky Quarks,
perky little Fermions, and the Boson Higgs,
the reigning King of Mass of towering might;
who, by spontaneously falling off in any old direction,
gives ad hoc Masses to nearly all, and to all a birthright.

And for all normal matter in creation,
the Boson Higgs is the physicist's salvation.
Alas, we could have learned more,
but a Weasel ate through the Collider core.

Hickory dickory dock
The clock struck thirteen o'clock
Hickory dickory dock
it's time to fix the clock
Hickory dickory dock
I found an extra part

Hickory dickory dock
The clock struck fourteen o'clock
Hickory dickory dock
I found a mouse in the clock
Hickory dickory dock
It's time to catch the mouse

Hickory dickory dock
The clock struck fifteen o'clock
Hickory dickory dock
The clock has a knock
Hickory dickory dock
It's time to clean the clock

Hickory dickory dock
dot, dot, dot, dot,  dot

Hickory dickory dock
The clock struck nineteen o'clock
Hickory dickory dock
Part, mouse, noise, and more
Hickory dickory dock
It's time to throw out the clock

Hickory dickory dock
Oh, perfection can be such a mock
Hickory dickory dock

Canto I: Before the beginning
St. Augustine was asked, "What happened before creation?"
He replied, time is a part of creation--
if there is no time, there is no before.
Now many conjectures--
We don't really know, but Augie could be right.

Canto II: The earliest and furthest we can see
400,000 years after the beginning,
the atomic plasma combined, and light broke free of matter.
3000 degrees then, 3 degrees now, expanding and cooling--
The Cosmic Microwave Background: escaped light, fiat lux.

Canto III: The big bang starting point
Dense, hot spacetime with physics different from ours.
What is to become the visible universe is the size of a proton
(give or take).
Separation and emergence of the four forces, gravity first.
All the energy of the universe is present--
It's all in a low entropy state,
primed for almost unimaginable transformations

Canto IV: Inflation, an evidence supported theory of crazy expansion
Superluminal expansion of spacetime.
In an instant, inflation begins and ends, from proton-sized to inches.
Within spacetime the speed of light is energy's maximum,
but need spacetime itself be so limited?
We don't know the full extent of spacetime, just what we can backtrack.
After inflation, a coasting slowing expansion begins

Canto V: Particle creation and cooling
Age of subatomic particles--
Is this when dark matter appears or is it already there?
Quark creation, fusion and confinement into particles.
Neutrons, protons and others.
Recognizable physics processes occur.
Cooling, coasting expansion.

Canto VI: Normal  matter
Protons, electrons and photons appear in a hot plasma state.
With cooling, electrons are captured and atoms appear.
Light, with fewer charged particles to dance with,
leaves matter behind to create the Cosmic Microwave Background.
Free at last!

Canto VII: Changes slow, but expansion continues and then spurts
Clouds of matter, normal and dark, gravitational compaction.
Two billion years: Proto-galaxies and stars form
Things are starting to look normal.
Feeding on dark energy, expansion speeds up. Surprise!
Galactic accretion continues

Canto VIII: Life
Four billion and a half years ago earth forms.
Less than a billion years later, there is life.
Are we special? Does life exist elsewhere?
The visible universe is 14 billion years "old" and counting.
Everywhere we look we see uniformity:
We may not be alone.

Canto IX: The end?
All distant terrible fates:
Don't worry, be happy!

There are books that teach, that we revere.
There are poems that we remember because they are true.
But there are only a few movies that show us how to live.

Just as the Don prepared Michael for his life, his words guide us as well:

"Don't raise your voice- Improve your argument."
"Never hate your enemies, it affects your judgment.
"Great men are not born great, they grow great."
"A man who doesn't spend time with his family can never be a real man."
"Accidents don't happen to people who take accidents as a personal insult."
"Time erodes gratitude more quickly than it does beauty."
"Never let anyone know what you are thinking."
"Forgive. Forget. Life is full of misfortunes."
And if that fails:
"Revenge is a dish that tastes best cold."

And when life serves us lemons, Clemenza offered us this:
"Leave the gun, take the cannoli."

Scrappy as hell
the little black dog
stood on his hind legs
growling at the
postman.

The girl
in the red jacket
stood on the rock
because...
well, she was
ten years old.

In spite of the
little black dog
the postman
gave the girl
on the rock
a letter,
and winked.

Everyone went their own way,
and lived happily ever after,
I wish.

In Boston, I shared a bed with a stranger,
In New Orleans, it was rope...
Just trying to lose the loneliness blues.

In Memphis, I sat with a stray cat,
I smoked-- the cat did not...
Just trying to lose the loneliness blues.

In Atlanta, forking out bail--
an all night binge on Chanel...
Just trying to lose the loneliness blues.

In Chicago, cut my hand
on the shell of thorns...
Just trying to lose the loneliness blues.

At home, settled now,
looking for more words for the next verse...
Just trying to lose the loneliness blues.

Canto I. Long ago and far away...

Under the bridge across the Kankakee River, Grampa found me. I was busted for truancy. First grade. 1946.

Summer and after school: Paper route, neighborhood yard work, dogsbody in a drugstore, measuring houses for the county, fireman EJ&E railroad, janitor and bottling line Pabst Brewery Peoria. 1952-1962.

Fresh caught Mississippi River catfish. Muddy Yummy. Burlington, Iowa. 1959. Best ever.

In college, Fr. ***** usually confused me with my roommate, Al. Except for grades. St. Procopius College, 1958-62. Rats.

Coming home from college for Christmas. Oops, my family moved a few streets over and forgot to tell me. Peoria, 1961.

The Pabst Brewery lunchroom in Peoria, a little after dawn, my first day. A guy came in and said: "Who wants my horsecock sandwich? ****, this first beer tastes good." We never knew how many he drank. 1962.

At grad school, when we moved into the basement with the octopus furnace, Dave, my roommate, contributed a case of Chef Boyardee spaghettios and I brought 3 cases of beer, PBRs.  Supper for a month. Ames. 1962.

Sharon and I were making out in the afternoon, clothes a jumble. Walter Cronkite said, " President Kennedy has been shot…”. Ames, 1963.

I stood in line, in my shorts, waiting for the clap-check. The corporal shouted:  "All right, you *******, Uncle and the Republic of Viet Nam want your sorry *****. Drop 'em".  Des Moines. Deferred, 1964.

Married and living in student housing. Packing crate furniture. Pammel Court, 1966.

One of many undistinguished PhD theses on theoretical physics. Ames. 1967.

He electrified the room. Every woman in the room, regardless of age, wanted him, or seemed to. The atmosphere was primeval and dripping with desire. In the presence of greatness. Palo Alto, 1968.

US science jobs dried up. From a mountain-top, beery conversation, I got a research job in Germany. Boulder, 1968. Aachen, 1969.

The first time I saw automatic weapons at an airport. Geneva, 1970.

I toasted Rembrandt with sparkling wine at the Rijksmuseum. He said nothing. Amsterdam International Conference on Elementary Particles. 1971.

A little drunk, but sobering fast: the guard had Khrushchev teeth.
Midnight, alone, locked in a room at the border.
Hours later, release. East Berlin, 1973. Harrassment.

She said, "You know it's remarkable that we're not having an affair." No, it wasn't. George's wife.  Germany, 1973.

"Maybe there really are quarks, but if so, we'll never see them." Truer than I knew.  Exit to Huntsville, 1974.

On my first day at work, my first federal felony. As a joke, I impersonated an FBI agent. What the hell? Huntsville. 1974. Guess what?-- No witnesses left! 2021.

Hard work, good times, difficult times. The first years in Huntsville are not fully digested and may stay that way.

The golden Lord Buddha radiated peace with his smile. Pop, pop. Shots in the distance. Bangkok. 1992.

Accomplishment at work, discord at home. Divorce. Huntsville. 1994. I got the dogs.

New beginnings, a fresh start, true love and life-partner. Huntsville. 1995.

Canto II. In the present century...

Should be working on a proposal, but riveted to the TV. The day the towers fell and nearly 4000 people perished. September 11, 2001.

I started painting. Old barns and such. 2004.

We bet on how many dead bodies we would see. None, but lots of flip-flops and a sheep. Secrets of the Yangtze. 2004

I quietly admired a Rembrandt portrait at the Schiphol airport. Ever inscrutable, his painting had presence, even as the bomb dogs sniffed by. Beagles. 2006.

I’ve lost two close friends that I’ve known for 50-odd years. There aren’t many more. Huntsville. 2008 and 2011.

Here's some career advice: On your desk, keep a coffee cup marked, "No Whining", that side out. Third and final retirement. 2015.

I occasionally kick myself for not staying with physics—I’m jealous of friends that did. I moved on, but stayed interested. Continuing.

I’m eighty years old and walk like a duck. 2021.

Letter: "Your insurance has lapsed but for $60,000, it can be reinstated provided you are alive when we receive the premium." Life at 81. Huntsville, 2022.

Canto III: Coda

Honest distortions emerging from the distance of time. The thin comfort of fading memories. Thoughts on poor decisions and worse outcomes. Not often, but every now and then.

(Begun May 2016)

at the outdoor bar on the beach
And all the golf carts gather around.
Some Elvis and a few more beers
No millennials until sundown.

In that little deuce coupe,
the Beach Boys run around,
Surfer girl's a Pasadena lady,
And surf boards are all aground.

Now I long for yesterday
When oldies were the craze.
There goes the sun and I say,
Hey Jude, here's to better days.

I ride back to the boonies,
thinking when oldies were newsies.
Wake up little Suzie,
we gotta go home

Concealing more than revealing,
Forgetting more than remembering,
Talking much, saying little.
The triage of truth.

Strobing flashes in the clouds,
Thunder rolling through the hills.
Dust puffs with the first drop-
The promise of grass and prairie flowers.

In my brain,
making something new,
understanding something old.

In the beginning there was procrastination,
and I can't wait to start putting that off.

To begin or not to begin that divides us all.

Deferring action never increases entropy,
and lengthens the life of the universe.

Completion happens once, but delay has no limit.

I'm not dithering, just exploring all the options.

This "beginning" poem has just been hijacked by hesitation,
and dragged down the rat hole of reluctance.

Oh well, there is always tomorrow.
One can always say, my muse took a snooze.

"So why are you painting a woman in a bottle?"
The challenge. Handling all those quirky reflections and layers of transparency.

"She has phantom arms and legs, what about that?"
Yes, pretty cool. A Vitruvian woman in a bottle.

"I'm looking for Meaning: Don't paintings look under the surface?"
You mean, what does it mean, really mean? It's just a way to test my skill.

"But what are you saying with that?"
It's not feminist nor anti, it's just an exercise. Besides, there's a rope.

"But aren't you, as an artist, exposing reality, presenting emotions and feelings, seeing the soul?"
I'm not on a soapbox-- I'm testing my skill-- I paint and don't think about it too much. After all, 'Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar' or is it 'just a smoke'? *

"I don't like your message."
OK, I'll paint you in a bottle...
As a shrunken head.

The Venetian Red fish
Slithers through the magentic sky,
Sniffing the violence of electromagnetic vibrations,
I, behind the branchia, spur her/him on,
Far away, the sight of thunder rumbling and static,
Feeling the inky indigo of the mirage of toothy desire.
Hearing cold textures of slippery fishy scales,
Tasting the black velvet Jesus, Elvis, and Nixon,
Our banner.

Oh, that can’t possibly happen said Jonah,
As he was enveloped by exactly that,
A piercing cacophony of clashing color
That resolved itself into the image of his ex.
No more, no more.

The red fish jumped the river Stix,
Halting at the 7-11 from hell.
A seventh circle infernal Powerball anyone?
A hellish scratchie tempts my soul.
But my lucky number is a binary: 1-oh,1-oh, 1-oh.
That’s hell for you, unsymmetrical.

Needed, perhaps a chance encounter,
with an itinerant puzzle person
Would they sort the senses and find truth?
Could that help or should it?
He winks and I don’t believe her.

A stolen kiss thrown
At the 2018 Little League Playoffs at Southaven, Mississippi
Still echoes in their brain pans and mine too.
The dull stylus of dangerous thrills
scratched my pancreas as Jim shoveled his lunch.
But I have better manners than that.

In the chaotic magentic atmosphere,
I mount my scarlet stead,
and move on-- as you should too.
Adieu. Adieu. Adieu.

Breathe, said the demon
Breathe and assume the bridge pose
Breathe into your favorite body part
We are just holograms at the edge of a black hole, so breathe.
Breathe and retrieve, Warrior I
Breathe and grieve, Warrior II
Namaste and good night