I had stumbled, but managed to tilt around the wet, saltiness of an iridescent trench.  It did not take long for the parched stipe to flourish. And within the great service station in the sky, there was no practicality in the offer of being auto-tuned—-reemerging would mean kneading away a shadowy line. But even the most brilliant impressions were light years away from being accepted and then eventually ruined for the odor of love. My true self was a mere minutes to the side, and yet here I sat on my sunken, muted cushion and wondered why I could be so easily lured by the best decisions and worst outcomes of an eremitic pleasure. The spin-off of feeling important was covered parking closest to the unmanned gate. Still, confusion always told you exactly who it was. What we chose for intuition was the difference between able posture and how fluffy I preferred the liquid plume. As I shifted, the strands of rumination scattered.  Even without the wind, abundance should always be motioning like a temptress that was born without winter wear. In the coolest air there would be the tapestry of City Lights.  And while the porter would be happy if you were present, it only took one qualm to change a reservation.  I prefer to work backwards from a smile and a slap, until I can happily find my footing on cue. If I could just bring myself to dream in black and white, there are flimsy ropes within your impassioned hue. Reconciliation is not an alter ego, just as forever is simply a forlorn sketch of the viewer’s shimmering rage. Untreated, we are better left as arsonists on a colorless island…the neglected inner child is a curious sage.