But I prefer magic.
Like planets spinning. There's no precision.
Soft tissue flushing and I hold the loose buttons.
Restraint isn't part of the curriculum.
Driver's Ed is actually theoretical physics. How far pure force can take us.
The leaves that were behind me like minutes, like hours
I shouldn't have stepped on that one. That cracked one.
I tried to tell truths to the pavement. I leaned on the guardrails.
The impulse for invention has withered.
Like time or light that moves so fast it does not move.
We are rushing to asylum.
But there are no safe places for artistry.
Building things, maybe in the morning.
When the white coast, when the light.
Talking as if we give a damn.
We know this isn't truth.
That we are both stealing from our memories.
Possibility always rampant.
And I do like the taste of regret sometimes.
Talking our way out of it. Talking as if we mean it.
Discerning the place of my electrical charge among all this energy.
I'm unfamiliar with this muon. You instructed me not to talk
to ghosts or strangers.
But we believe in different gods and loving is hard.
They are like numbers. We are counting them. Out of order.