Firefly

Fire flies, flying fire a little spark of light like the twinkle in her eyes when thinks about, you think, you, but rather about ice cream in real in a world full of fountainpens and wooden tables of uncertainty water-tables where writers who engrave their stories and secrets on the surface of the water of a running river or a raging ocean like a wild elephant that walks around forests smoking the tobacco of heaven with gods full of testosterone in their balls of tennis games and snooker pools diving from flexible boards of blackness inky pinky oink of a little pic however cute in a sty – stylish fish flying with pigs ah ha that must be a dream worth dreaming about young musicians and achievers who write songs about life who are not really your friend or cousins with metal ruler-scales weighing peas and the prose and cons of poetry who are quick correct the pros in prose asking one to drop the e and Perec is quick to fall in love with them from the capacity of a writer of lipogram lonely in their rooms imagining a different place and world where nothing is real where they have never been where they aren’t right now and their bags packed with sandwiches cooked eggs and packets of plastic playing cards queen of hearts crying howling their hearts out, standing on the decks of the world’s largest-ever ship in the history of shipping and telegrams and telecommunications for dots and dashes of infancy cotton wool polythene polyester molds of brains making mass-producing machines that make brains and thoughts and an impossibly undeniable assurance of a sense of being at least for now and on till tomorrow