It was on the walk while surrounded by dizzy stillness and birds' song, Invoked in a desperate last gasp It was all too apparent with the spinning nothingness of this street Swirled and unapologetically driven by nonsense except in smatterings while looking down a street looking for a cigarette, The reality in facing reality hits me, like a swift kick in the nuts when the Gardener looks at me with those, uneasy eyes, The walk continues as the colors inked with rusted mailboxes etched with dying roses synch grey skies and grey...sweatshirts The walk feels well worn and I stand in unconvinced understanding, That I was no longer nauseous.