The rewinder is not talking to feelings, but why mention it to them anyway? One kiss and throw the flowers into his mouth. Like a starfish under a beached beluga who is still crying. Sea out of water. Boat out of garbage. First tarot of the talking serpent. No one’s going to find your neurons at lunchtime. I’ll have the usual windowless charity with my ghosts watching. Gray sweatshirt and gold monocle, to impress the pilot. You know he’s the root of it. Start up the night music, night patterns, good for them. Learn the strokes, swim away like a jello shot. Split my voice into sections of seriousness, one being not serious at all, another being slightly less unserious. I was a timeless sword without a stamp. Was it a dream, full of cut hair in a bathtub; can you hear it falling? Please say yes this time. Blue houses kicked out of the neighborhood. Boy was I pissed. I ran up the street screaming and tossing salt over my shoulder. Who thought I was a witch, the blue one? Maybe he’s right, and I would create a wheel just for him. I would sell at least fourteen of my ghosts for a chance to see another sunset like the last one there ever was. Nuclear power plants and you know I’ve always, really always, wondered why they would build a bomb shelter in a tree. Folding the crowd in half like Mozart did on his way out. Ignore being alone and capture the softer part of anxiety. It’s a quiet room for awhile without telepathy, but how in the universe did it go? Where were the mountains of sadness last year when we needed them?