Were I driving something, the soft green landing voice on the north side of the trees makes for a concerned citizenry under the visible hand of land ownership, taken as the motor vehicle you confidently chose for your t-shirt, and don't fight the second person, look at the third, for objectivity is its own imaginary, abstraction is a garden in front of a bank, holding your tension as well as your rank; mulch and the leaves and butterfly minutes, fading to eyesight and wood sidewalk tenets; haircuts and dogs and quitting common sense, facing the music of cars driving rents, watchful the sentences ran on too graph't, boxes and dots and sunglasses eyes: for gone contusion on earnestly high, waiting to honestly terribly lie, frightful the shouting and buildings in distance, raiding the plenty for gentry and fixtures.