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I am aware my hands and arms move in the way you expect: outstretched offering what you drove to extinction in the pursuit of results; self-calculations cut clear through all that would root down the mountainsides sloped into the gut where fires are left only now to invention. A wire mesh complicating thought into a synthesis of chemistry, conceived without the unknown to spark life – action alone desiring more than it swallowed up; a habit, unsatisfied by its own mechanics. Oh, there is that one thin wire affixed at the center spanning the whole length alive with the buzz of nothingness that I pluck sending your balls to lodge in the throat, stopping speech certainly as eyes ripped wide to all capacity – that eidolon confused with your own sense. Consider me if you must a geared robot tethered to a golden balloon risen past the safety of confinement into orbits spiraling toward your bright, cratered roundness in stalwart lunacy to chart the crushed beauty of shimmering dust, or perhaps better to think, coming down at night from trees upon that scary hill with a magic stick to switch out giggles springing out from seven deaths, bending each fold to face further than dark space like a blooming monolith spread into each blade of grass to be sweetly crushed softly under this planet's tired, bare feet.
