Another year, another bottom-another ledge fluffed lower on the stairs. I am now but three rungs from hanging the curtains level, the second side of the coin that stayed on past the streetlights glowing yellow. Even if permanence was eloquently tapered, make that delicately ruffled, perched at the very top of the case, say felled by the number 18, adjudging the venerable and babied – I would still seek guidance to profess all prosperities that were left disheveled by mounting time and masquerading drivel-a toast to the horse who races the hay. In this case, the beginning is well under way and the middle is the manifesto of a single drop of sealant, before the hypersonic collision stirred by chilled hands and a leapfrogging payoff of referral and an unconcerned reprieve -if avarice is your nameplate, then we abolish high tops that serve cheese fondue in a wine induced shade. This census of restored style, sense of ponderous wizardly suites me just fine. Extra levers turn the same outcomes as extra time, to the sudden, cutting points, all is a cumbersome waste, you would not want to pay rent for the skylight no matter how many rays of brightness the dollars let in. This fifteen, this birthday, is a series of aqua flashes, a strobe effect of focused thoughts, well-trained problems, negligent possibilities, rewound solutions and then eventually, puree in a silver cup. By all accruals, every day is a year, full of festering and festivity, if you know just where to look. To give a hint, there is nothing to be found other than fumes and dead trees amidst a storyboard or typed letters to a pal who amends his friends. Does one leaf wonder if a new sapling makes their field an orphanage? Does the crow who finds a crumb on the beak of the sparrow call on the lizard to explain the taste? True, the stepped carpet that hides the scowl from the wooden planks is more than just casually compliant, after all, slivers are not a motivator for the recruitment of fustian disciples. The woman next door is placing her golf clubs into the trunk of her car, despite the wrappings of my jovial interference, it will never be more than 1pm on a Wednesday, we all grow together by way of the next open step-or if you hasten the time-the mashing of the grapes.