Guilt and math. They drag me forward like the pig-tailed girl at recess-tearing the sleeves from my familial dignity-better known as the fabric of my favorite shirt. There is something about purple that I have always found fascinating, especially when the colored tinge is the basis for a flashy pattern or a subservient life to sort. I have checkers bordered by shadows on the tip of my tongue. I plan to speak on the insinuation, as soon as my body stops twitching from the rash of the frictioned heat. Clearly, I am deviating from the benefits of being a tailor, of which I am not an appropriate displacement or a sanctioned trope of conceit. It is hardly that confusing when you consider my position from the register of a store. If I had power over a stitch and a steam, I would have kept grinning-lips parsed tight, teeth grinding with precision. But objection calls on the overmatched to deliver. At least my bouncing ribs will not require waxing. Mt. Fuji is framed in corresponding fashion. The flowers are as resilient as they are enchanting-every post and every lantern is endeared to the epitome of yesterday-happiness comes from the ability to recollect a photo’s insistent bloom-even if heaven slowed, while passing by-were you caught wondering when the aggressor might issue a reprieve or cut the ropes loose? Hapless debris is rapidly filling my nose, yet I can still smell the blossoming dye that is now draining a leather emblem’s carefully, crafted pose. Replacement value is based upon what a consumer can ingest. At the current speed, an occasional strobe introduces a lighter shade that may one day be a relative to a salmon’s gills and the fluorite of a lake. But for now, the design should sag from a mannequin’s rounded shoulder, while being smitten from a jester’s vexatious grin. The cars hover in unison, which leads me to believe that my attacker is not native to a manageable, lesser gear. Eventually, mirrors attach to my perimeter. Glass seems to pulse from an electric 80s wave. I miss the wrapped box and gift receipt. To be off my feet was to be fluttering like a fallen ribbon, and does a date really exist to eliminate being classified as defective and unsought? These last few tics have not been enlightening or less anesthetic. Wherever the tank empties will castigate an opportunistic and hesitant embryonic trend. I would like to think that what remains will be fully glowing–for wearing shorts today cannot be imagined as anything but wrong. Over the mountain is the output of being shifty, sob stories are the recipe for being frustratingly enigmatic and disproportionally strong. Those who get blessed twice are worthy of headings in a book. I will settle for drifting off the grid with a proper masquerade. Eventually, everyone else becomes a distant logo- skimming across the crushed grooves of a circular highway- listening to the wing-clipped mutton, there is no such harmony between pigmented calculation and restitution from a tiny blonde in a cage.