The rising sun sets on a brand old day.

We dance to broken hearts, summertime, and parallels.

Onward, flags flying, to the beat of enterprise and the smell of ***.

While swirls of blue and yellow skate dizzily behind us.

I collapse on a mirror flecked with drops of blood and stickers.

Here above the truth is peace and quiet and clarity and numb.

Because tomorrow, again, the setting dust will rise behind the hills.