Okay. The pink wall takes the sun
and turns itself in. Alimony! Parsimony!
A cello made out of coffee beans, strung
a little too tight. There are high-pitched
pink roses flinching on the ceiling. I feel
called to prayer. No prayer calls, though.
Ever is a strong word; not strong enough
to articulate the desire to never ask some
thing higher for a favor. What is the frame
of reference? Stratosphere gods? Molten
core moles? Is one mol really gigantic or
just as miniscule? Sophomore year was a
long time ago -- that's my age. Are there
leaves outside? Leaves of sass? Leaves of
Manassas? Leaves of melted sugar? Leaves
of leaving? Get out of my head, America.
Your stripes showed themselves to be
private, privateering, manufacturing
for the sake of a desire that even Jung
could never have catalogued. Catacombs.
End at death? Seems too self-concentric.
Roman Ryan 