in trying to be what to them she represents, she holds a pair of scissors while looking for her hair.  she is my mother and then she is my mother again in a car with my mother and my son.  the car in front of us goes left of center and said son speaks on the beating he’s getting from the driver of the drifting car.  I’m worried at the sanity of his intelligence but am also driving.  mother is taking his statement with lipstick and a wet notepad.  below me, a whole populace splits on the given permanence of surreal or ethereal when both are equally inexact.  if god needs to beat one body, I’d rather he be this down-to-earth not to use that of the son in my car.  I can’t lengthen my life with all the speaking and the writing and mother can taste it.  her silence introduces a third car as caveat and in it the belief I’m shortened by.