I take it that a spray of Sun occults your face, like watching in a squalid cinema, something a slapstick would conjure a stylistically dumb image, or the prattle of bunkum hubbub drowning loudspeakers in plazas. You know there is a part of you that goes missing every time you hear me pass carefully under the care of toppled light, and there is a part of me that engages the dark in this straining mutiny. This is such a troubled time on the hardline; a martinet on the other cheapened end of a totaled horizon hollering at gentrified space, eyes sternly fixed on the mattress, conspicuous in urbane manner, something shadows bade with hands, lifts up all the ragamuffin days: to capture you in such moment, such oneness, of no complication, like a clean Yamazaki on the house, or a metropolitan district augured with rubicund crisscrosses, streets sidereal in measures, an aggressive ******* at the end of the curb, the spanked curve of the mordant asphalt, and the rise of body heat from yesterdayβs swelter; something only I could have thought of in white thighs of little ladies and peering birds for collarbones: look at this, maddened, retaining nothing but age.