Just a cool stone falling from the sky. A parachute smoking Parliament Lights coasting the real world that was passing it by. Coaxing a kettle to observe kashrut law but tamely give it time and it'll start handling the swine in the huge sunlight of Williamsburg's Southeast side. It will learn to pedal its parlor tricks in order to survive.

The tabloids had the story neatly bundled up with a news team in their 3-floor flat. Bubble-wrapped and packaged with plastic. Two new reasons to draw a truce to the agonizing and circuitous chasing of the playground muse. Beautiful warmed cerise porcelain skin intertwined by the golden threads worth never ever choosing to blink again. Beautiful like imaginary childhood sword fights among the assurance of our towering grandparents. Beautiful as the vintage polaroid blur of a person whose city slept itself into the sea. She slept herself into the sea.

From the sacred realm of the many desk drawers, lintels, cupboards, and closets where so many objects of misdirection, confusion, and memory appear out of 25¢ rings, faded business cards, nameless sentimental must-haves, four or five photographs that are never looked at, three or four leather cuffs, brass knuckles, a sailor's compass, 12 cigarettes, and two empty cigar boxes of stuff that is home to even lesser known finer sentimentally necessary stuff.

The commoner takes no notice of these fantastical theorems or the promulgating tantrummers in the sweaty cobblestone streets where in the sarcasm of a daydream, he the dreamer sleeps here yet he's awake in July the Fourth, Eighteen Seventy-Three, Independence Day or though it would seem. The narrator who is played by Humbert Humbert constantly fidgets with a steel 6-shot revolver, he drops it multiple times while his eyes are stricken with the brightest shine from the sheen off a knife in the hands of the stranger's while he shuffled and whined.

Inside the shells of flightless birds there are always the tormented ears echoing the screams of the children that they hurt. Who will never gait through wild strawberry fields or understand that everything is only as real as we choose to feel.