to trouble you with the miniscule trite and frisk your pockets for lint is to be not a one of mine. to clink through the fetid grub of dull seizures of myopic introspection to surface upon the surface with a fist full of tears and mockery, i am not the one. to find you at your post; a rarefied glint of true steel and reed... swinging from the rafters of no heaven imagined; rejoicing in the brisk sting of too much life, i must find you. a fellow acrobat. happy must i be to close the open circle of our revolution. to orbit closer to the voidling that matters more than smoke. my friend.