These velvet streets will miss us when we’re gone from their view. The fog that fills up behind us comes from nowhere; my vision is clearer than ever. You count on one hand and can’t make seven mathematics means nothing off the paper. It’s quite probable we mean nothing, too. I stare at the ceiling and forget about the dishes I wonder if I ever thought about the dishes. I’ve always been somewhere else but, God, I love these velvet streets. and these velvet streets will miss us when we count further than they can.