I can still remember the pinecone and the pine box. The fairied gift or my chipped toys, neither made an impression on the lots we were drawn. It was daytime, but the currents in the new address were cold, unapprised of the shiny, jagged keys that sifted ownership from the compulsions that had defiantly outwaited the beldam. I often assigned feminine qualities to my bubble when the pressure could no longer cushion the upcoming applause or expand upon the errors that restarted the dotting of the pen. In the unprepared darkness, the mint covered scent squirmed its way inside the lemon brown shade, dull and lethargic as if trapped at the bottom of an edgeless pool-untreated for lime and algae. My skin can be just as casual as my nostrils when it comes to trading access for curiosity. As I stumbled into the assigned bedroom, what I was breathing in became the basis for certain decisions that would offer to flay and to glean-finger tipped residuals and unsharpened spears of syntax. To this day, I am not sure where I fall on the spectrum- somewhere between choices and whims–maybe even schemes. Eventually, the preamble warms, and lays down its settlement on the shapeless undersides of the adapting hymn. At dawn, inevitability takes up a high position despite the grievances of the hardened bracts and the latch of the eternal lid-or perhaps it’s the orphaned thoughts that are most local-if my head is indeed cocked-then let the lethargic wait for an unabridged crossing. With each new dilation, the pablum readies itself as a sheet that cannot keep your illusions from absconding and at the same time, cover the refractions at the edge of the bed. Graciously, I request a parlay with the woodsman, he already houses my remains, so perhaps he will do me the courtesy of resting easy when I feel the need for a final howl–thrown towards the dodging of the adversary-or a nod for the old home–of an even better friend.