My words now float up to space and then down to you in a digital prayer, while my flesh streaks down I-5 with grass seeds in my hair and paint on my face. My soul isn't to be found though, but of course no ones' ever was so i can't lodge any new complaints into our ledger.
I think of you and i think of whales and a spider braving a crawl space in an attic that may only hold starvation. We're all insane; there is no debate on that, but i fear i might be growing saner as i lose things to say, so i have started not to speak.
Instead i try correspondence with the wind but i only recieve changes in air pressure as a reply.
This drove Dostoevsky under- ground, but it makes me want to run to you: yes to bare feet and snow and the prospect that something was actually waiting for us on that blanket.
Now the sun begins to rise but the billboard lights are still on despite the slumber of the theme parks.
Soon they will wake and lines will spontaneously form out of forged courtesy and habit, but i will wonder when i can sleep in your arms under a January snow again.