We disrupt so much atmos with words. The porcelain empire of clouds felled with subtracting clatter myth blessing fields of felt and the skins that dwell there. Gods angelic casseipia ballroom shunted with klieg lights on industrial green linoleum hosting junk monkeys mistaking pomade for eternity. We are not constellations. We are the dust they leave when God can no longer see. Machinery is our death match with gravity reclaiming you and me and Sundays.