Change seems inevitable. Old sentences carry different purposes. Mold forms in old coffee cups like modern paintings. Tubas boom like thunderstorms. Your age appears first on the back of your hands. A clock talks by ticking or not at all. The knot is not the rope. Poets write only white lines. Medications are altered. The brain forgets itself. Impatience scribbles nonsense. We become heavier, weighted and slower. Playing the Sitar becomes easy as whistling. Tamed ostriches preen in toy cowboy hats. Lint tells secrets of navels. Words float in bubbles. The wicked become tender. Voices ebb and echo devoid of throats and tongues. Speech nailed to walls becomes the new poetry. We burn the news to warm ourselves. Each dawn forms a unique conclusion. A moth destroys Chicago. Vandalism is elevated to curated folk art. How can I be sure these syllables are real when everything changes except the desire for coffee? Please don't wake me up. I want to remember this dream.