chugging along the lilacs of twilight in the plasma darkening of a stretch we fetch the improbable road to our destination. we give a ****. but the birds are listening. and that might lead to luggage. so much, you might sweep the light fantastic into army hats. you might march a sustained coup on your hopeless epiphanies. at nineteen miles an hour, on a train... you see your god. are you too light to darken the right words to a happy demise?