as i colonize my outskirts, moon junk sick with the real pity of an angel but half the size of a whole thing… sort of a trojan armada marching out of wasted time. a tweedle dee in the steam trunk of my misadventures. mostly maple leaf tempura dozing off in a tempestuous kiss like a pumpkin praying to Chinese with a Pi.
we slip into the stream of our afternoon- and dare the span of a constant dark, our lanterns possessed of all the fire we enkindle beyond spark. we breathe on the wind that our sails obey. however, lost. eating gumption with our bare hands- like golden brutes tugging sunshine from a cave.