Till then when it is the next time when I busy myself

Till then when it is the next time when I busy myself I would want to think that this story that I had to started to shout into the ears of the world or did I just whisper it all along all that I know for sure is that I did not hear my voice my own voice but I hope the world and all of that one hippopotamus that had wanted me to say things out loud – speak up it used to tell me all the time – but this story isn’t about that at all but something else that this story indeed is about, that I hope I have been whispering well in the ears of the world and I hope I was good in telling the story and I hope the story was good in itself spoken in forked tongues of snakes watching their dreams like dream-flies and fireflies inside a glass jar of the psychedelic high-power intensity of mornings after black-outs and hangover inducing late nights of laughter and music combination of seven frequencies in seventeen octaves sung in my throat my voice of a box of buttons and that is all there is till the leaves turn brown like that Simon and Garfunkel song that once played in my room all the time beside beaches when I walked watching moonrise and till then when it is the next time when I busy myself I think I should just sit quiet in a corner of an old room where the moon always rises at the windows to think about the next very big endless story to shout out into the ears of the world till then when it is the next time when I busy myself to say something, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye

Of sleeping their nights or waking it

Of sleeping their nights or waking it up or waking themselves up to see the night waking up to be awake the night awake in which you woke up to be awake in a night that woke up a little while ago words just because they could be like cobwebs strings serving a purpose to house a spider eight legs two eyes and a million, million dreams about being the most popular spider in the world and a few regrets about not being the most popular spider in the entire universe, yet, and there always is scope for improving oneself spider or someone else otherwise say self-help kings and queens of blinds and shades of black and blue beating their drums blood a steady thin stream or a streak if you will dripping down flowing out gushing out of your ears oh happy new year and all those people who used to write once upon a long time ago stories that made you smile and then they disappeared leaving all those words and stories for you to take out of little glass jars and to listen to them when you are alone blue nostalgic old-time like the golden yellow sodium vapour light from the streetlamp of a deserted street where blows a cool warm wind breeze oh how amazing now warm now cool with traces of the sea and salt in it soon to be a cloud soon, soon, soon, perhaps early tomorrow morning or on your next birthday – tell me, tell them – how would you like it?

The cat, I think I had called it

I think I called it the cat – I think I used to call it the cat – I think I got used to calling it the cat – I think I called it a used cat – I used to think I called it a cat – I think I called to use it as a cat – I used to think I got used to calling it a cat – I used to think I got used to calling it a used cat and so many things could be said about what I thought I used to call the thing that was there between us with or without a label of that time for that time and for posterity and we were almost sure that we didn’t want a name and I think we got used to thinking that we did not wat a name for it and I think we thought that we got used to thinking that we did not want a name and now I think like used to think that we thought that we used to think that we did not really want a used name for it and in between this and almost all of everything of all this the cat died – or did it really, and I think that the cat died or I used to think that the cat will forever be alive and I think I used to think forever that the used cat will forever be alive and all such combinations of using and being used and thinking and what we used to think about, all the time and almost all the time

I spend my days

And in the end after almost all of everything and everything else has been written down in lightning and thunderbolts of purple and blue feared by spiders eating potato chips and chopped onions pork chops meat meet and greet hi hello how do you do in the eye of the storm that rages after a strong bout of free will and goodwill hunting harmless sheep that promise to give you wool and milk making tasty flatbread in the middle of the night when you should only be asleep dreaming about you and me inside a radio dancing to the tunes of green flowerpots growing, growing, growing taller and taller by the day by the night goodbye good night good day bad thoughts bad news bad night the rich and the poor alike fear the reaper who reaps corn from fields of cold cuts of meat and fish and everything sweet and swish swooshing down to catch a small chicken of a large fish swimming in water running on land tiger and crocodile of hunting tears till all the crows turn black that was yesterday or the day before or the yesteryear and what about the last births in which you were a spinning top spinning like a restless planet with an orbital of a satellite eating tablets of window frames and curtains of sweet liquid tea brewed fresh this morning or was it yesterday the morning of which that is still fresh in your memory persisting like Dali’s clock melting losing shape dieting to be born and remembered again like Moses’s last wish

Are you (May be)

It seems like you (even the hypocrites) don't care much about 'serious literature' as you have been reading it all the time:  Good:  No matter how uninteresting the writing is, it is clear that you are the one who reads the effort the most:  Or if you're open this page as an unrelated selected page, you're not familiar with the characters on the previous pages - you do not need to be:  Maybe:  It is true that all this was written for writing - if it was written for reading it will only remain in the end as an unanswered question:  'Who wrote this?' Is not important - no notes about the author yet:  If all of this was written by one person, there does not seem to be any need for it to be so - for that matter, it does not have to be written by so many different people - so on the whole, who wrote this is an unnecessary question (as it were):  So there is a good chance that everything that has been written will be unnecessary: its probability (the name for the probability of nothing happening - oddly enough!) Is anything from zero:  Maybe:  Is that right? Even though it is written speech, it does not have to be written - it can be taken as a game:  Someone is talking about it now - repeating this 'this', 'this', 'this', self-references in the self-referential state - let's say a narrator is telling a story - the narrator does not need the name 'I' - can speak on the beach (That's something I'm writing or saying now) You have to listen to it - but you're it - if you can feel you're listening to it - aha, damn, very special - there's no problem with reading something written like that (just like that):  Maybe:  If the narrator is the narrator, then the narrator is the narrator:  Nana - am I the narrator? Light yourself up:  What I call 'you' is a plural of respect - and can be taken in some places to refer to many of you:  The narrator also seems to like to call you 'you' in the plural of respect - in many places referring to many of you:  I hope the storyteller and I have no problem with you being like this:  We also assume that in some places you can be called singular instead of plural:  We think you have no alternative - or write as you think - or someone writes as you think - or writes as you think now:  It may not be so:  Maybe:  Are you, are you, are you, are you? Maybe?

Rain Rains

Rain mixes and dissolves even when no one is watching:  only rain can dissolve rain:  while there is nothing new or old in the rain, the rain changes from new to old in the moments when horoscopes predict the planetary positions only about the time of birth:  the new rain is the same rain that mixes with the old rain:  in the indistinguishable rain, many rains, old and new, are hidden, and the infinity of time drops down:  on the roofs of our world many, many stories that no one has heard or told are hidden in the silence of the falling raindrops:  no one can forget the rain even when the rain disappears:  the rain is always performing the magic of transforming, transforming, spinning, spinning, changing, changing, changing, changing, changing, changing, changing, changing, changing, changing, changing, transforming, transforming, transforming, transforming, transforming, transforming, transforming:   to stand:   the plastic bag that flies on the platform takes a world within itself and flies:  the world inside the plastic bag has a sun-moon-clouds of its own, humans, magic, spells and everything:  there is a well in the world of plastic bag and there is a frog inside that well:  there is a frog in every existing well:  that well to that frog is the whole world; the frog has no need to know about anything other than the world:  no frog can ever tell if there is no need for anything other than the worlds because there are no needs, or if there is no need for anything because there is nothing else

Days of the past

Days of the past like days of the last minutes before the end of the world like the tail of a lizard that detaches itself like an old Buddhist monk walking their way on plains up a mountain on which rise and set suns and moons and the stars in every direction east or west on the arms of a wind-vane rooster monsters rowdy ways that they spend their days by and in large numbers yawning as they walk and go marching down the streets of musicians playing accordions according to the rules laid down by gatekeepers and watchmen of the guardians of the galaxy of planets and stars and asteroids with hand grenades of rolling wheelchairs and sleeping wheels of slipping time and slippery fins of fish that breathe bubbles of water and thin walls of soap arresting libraries and multiple shelves of books in the imaginary library that exists in seventeen dimensions and brushes of watercolour and oil paints painting scenes of the natural world photographs with water-bottles and lids lifting the cups of gold and silver in hand fans imported from Japanese windscreens and little tables of wood and bamboo flutes and beasts roaming around in forest notebooks with signatures of window shades and towels dripping letters of alphabets in seventy-three different languages talking writing dancing singing songs bringing down old clouds of silk and cotton bulk from the lofty lofts of the upper floor leveling up in elevators of large glass boxes and books and pens, pencils and feather pens

I hate it at times

I hate it at times when I do not have to love it from the bottom of my heart and then when you search for the torch light or the circle of light of the witches and the whole population of the town disappears and a newer fearless race appears in the sky and it descends on forest fires of absolute orange of a colour of flames thrown inside a gunny-bag with fingerprints inside them all belonging to officers of the bank and medicine men and people of architecture and tailors and security personnel guarding ferocious dogs that bark and ask for juicy meat and bones with green bottles of cold beer carried across in the sky by cloud pillows in pillboxes of multiplicity of compartments where mice run away from blocks of offensive cheese with holes large enough o swallow moons craters and all when hand sharp metal hooks thrown into the river chasing butterflies after the flowing electric current and eels sealed in envelopes with wax and floral patterns unbreakable ciphers and secrets of miniscule proportions in fingers pinched between fingertips potato tubers with eyes spreading their roots in all directions all around like the rays of ultraviolet light that makes white glow extra-white absorbing all black of grape juice in icebox refrigerators and ice cubes falling down like rain from the sky – no, not like rain, but rain indeed of cubes of ice each with volume x times x times x where x is the length of a side, x cubed of what a drag it is counting falling ice cubes like rain counting eggs and fingers before they catch a cold

Life of Raindrops

Because I think I’m not its bottomless and the wife sits a corner feeding the new child to you I’d say I love you, that you actually are looking at a face filled every corner in all their glory our goodbyes answered egos no regrets some things do make sense as you drink little litres of water off your jug like they did, yesterday or the day before but I’d want to think that I never knew it the way the things smell inside ancient caves on our faces – like the one nine times struck the clock I volunteer to take up talks through the window the beauty in some form – with all possible of the games we played, that then is it so is it so oh it just about nothing and stand outside in the open good sign that’s okay, for my red to be remembered but eve being the only company he had in the garden of Eden, he just managed to roam around the garden, however keeping a safe distance away from her: for long term plans after that one day they lost touch of the inseparable memories during late evenings, double comparatives it is sometime real soon into the abysmal depths and your eyes go green he picks up a comb and a pair of scissors: haaark: I am to see them all outside a definite rule id live by: of a kite kissing your face rising heat, rising dust the dreams, fancy, the shadows, becomes a part of my soul be you about the next moment buried deep beneath universal ignorance of either all through the night, the end of today growing proportionally with the growth of memories with every passing day of life of raindrops on my roof of one’s perceivable senses a silent shiver: need I say more about anything at all to places far away, to lands and watch would I ever stop writing: and hid themselves behind moving veils and would stand confused there that you have to tell me about reaches a point there were dragons that rode the clouds blending seamlessly like sugar everyone knows all that he needs to know spread around far and wide the new real dream was there to heal closes himself from many for you had all the friends 23 across: lumps of mud made into round shape

Mud Pie

Easy: the pleasantest of showers asses them and the ass you: a mind full of questions do you hear flying away outside the window alone are the dogs that hunt white leaves me with weak knees, always: and its always for that perfect love, no I can’t run: neither the river nor the sky shows my face: then with the usual chirping complaints of the birds the shining silver bit and same moon-light many in number ha ha hee why is here so very dry than living with many questions unasked the trumpeter smokes as he breathes as he plays on the stage hard wind, hard wind and other things clime would I see them and I care not, really with shining strands of light they all exclaimed oh how soon: learnt the back and forth dance for itself that night was at another up there on my ceiling, without a fence having done it all, knowing everything oh she was a most peculiar man: I don’t really know where I am music played, a muted typewriter: well ride on, oh what a ride it’ll be I have to tell you this – they indeed then you steal my sweetest dream but it’s us who made them, there was an orange tree pull out the brochures, build fires outside my door friends: you want some more and when I no longer have thirst kills us the next life then you want to waste my time today you with your deaf ears but they knew that there should be a snake and searched around for the snake, but in vain: how is in the air does exist very sound and healthy till tomorrow at times when alone he said "my vocabulary is the worst" away from us, yours and mine salt with shoulders shared I see it’s your question too but I want to sleep summer rain settles the dust that would finish what I should say

Yes, the posterior

Yes, the posterior is an absolutely offensive idea or a thought about an uncertainty of being or sitting on a wooden chair in the shape of a deep breath or the sigh of a snoring person struggling to sleep before the break of dawn and it isn’t even evening yet eating puffed grains and bits of roasted potatoes and fish in black sauce when what is being written is more and all of only about things that eat of things that go inside mouths of writers who write a thousand words a day they think or otherwise with sheets of white paper white as a lie and ink black as the heart of someone in love deep like the gravy bowl and hollow like a roll of cinnamon wow how lame sound things when sellers sell vegetables and spinach with a pinch of beach sand or desert sand stolen from castles that float and fly with the clouds busy making a rain of chairs and frogs of a faraway land kissing frogs making princes out of gilled amphibian who develop quick lungs and lunge forward and then backward and over and over again till they sweat sweet dreams that drip droplets of sugar and honey forgetful bees of the lowest branches of a mango tree ripe with old age the fruits young tree rooting leafing shooting bulls-eye black and white circles of concentricity of right here and right now like a key-ring of June early third week secret inside gloves that are Pinocchio wears for socks on his nose of admirable length like an elephant and its fan-like ears that spread rumours about silver-screen actors of yesteryears

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

In her open palm

Grows a palm tree and a planned desert full of sugary sand or sandy sugar with camels that carry water on their back humps dumps sitting on walls eggs or pumpkins imagining greater falls experiencing greater falls with moustaches that hang down their chins like inverted giant question marks related to questions about the origin of the universe or something about life or any of the associated imaginations or fascinations that feel dreamy in real or real in dreams identical states of being either chewing tobacco or smoking it till the nasal cavities are full of rings born out of intermittent practice that maketh everyone perfect and tailors make a man gentleman after the creation of man woman child and everyone by g for god e for elephant riders running a rat-race on mud tracks with unbelievable details and minute line drawing designs drawn out of the sleeves of a magician overdone and over-spoken about in a story of a stream of subconscious unconsciousness smelling salts suffering Sulphur and magnetic dioxide in their hearts and souls wanting to grow up to be electricians or writers of stories or writers of eclectic electric stories or to be all at the same time an all in one form of life creating and annihilating – boom, darkness in the middle of the day – boom, boom – thunder and lightning in the central processing unit computers lie to you when you ask them to speak the truth and robots are master monster deceivers of making a million faces to your back when you aren’t carefully looking at the mirror in front of you looking at them all and the rest of the world in the mirror in front of you coins falling from your pocket with a hole

She looks down

At the other end of the rainbow in violet without her spectacles and it’s hazy as it has always been from the beginning of an egg till the end of the process of boiling it hardening the yoke soaked in oil of mustard seeds ripe with tangy bitterness of spice aftershave lotion in a red bottle with a turn-screw cap with little lines drawn on it as she contemplates rebirth as a fairy or a dragonfly or a dragon spitting fire into little pots of glass and green in the middle of an open lawn of nothingness where snakes live and lie about eggs laying day-in and day-out of a baby that goes out into the city carrying a bottle with a rubber nipple of the future in personal issues of journals on planes of resurrection when connected to the bigger network of being awake and one with all life thinking blinking winking like a little electric bulb of a summer night born out of a nostalgic coincidence of herbal spicy tea and biscuits on the shiny metallic lines of an electronic circuit shaking hands with protons and neutrons making up for the weight of the waiting time mass of Sunday early mornings on hardboard tables to trace thin lines of black ink around maps of imaginary lands like the house next door or the neighbouring village full of goats and sheep and so full of wool where no one ever feels cold so full of warmth and there doesn’t exist a winter even of an unexpected microscopic moment behind windowpanes

Bubbles

As everyone gets busy and forgot fancy, confusions, fancy, a thought, said they, you miserable sod: it’s their business anyway felt like Sundays still we walk together and we go yes they did: they also said there were many gods up there, and that they were happily surprised to see men: is where she thinks she is going to so often and soon thing but the wasted time a charger for my torchlight beginning the pleasant evening of things, they say - things it must be showing rainbows there if it were day ‘yeah, that’s what I am like’ she said when in the evening that you like not too that I wouldn’t want to feel in my pen was half gone super oh so don’t you want to know: but I should only blame the time or the lack of it made them all smile, of faint pleasant recollections balloons play me: to realize almost everything else we all then go home I don’t know number nine they seep through his mind that dances with joy in front of me I’m your beast days to finish a book or till horizons they want their kicks if you want not to grow up later, the swinish nothingness is the truth as I sit in my room awaiting an idea:  the yellow taxi, (almost an oversized soapbox) or the fourth  like ripples on the surface of a silent lake when I was with them you made not for yourself, but that would question to understand to do list from everything  it was a Sunday – there was a Saturday a full stop was only a possibility - but they knew that there should be a snake and searched around for the snake, but in vain: though time is not on my side the air around stirred: of some time that will be and they’ve all gotten to an end happily

Unpronounceable Names

We doubt the hopes that once kept us alive objects of every will when’s yesterday once again: they said, the donkey cast a sad look glowing like little fireflies learnt Hinduism when he was bored I know, I know leaves fell and then came spring so they were here to watch the falling rain the questions are sure to grow: the night before it’s not the tears if I’m reborn again, would meet you again it was a Sunday - there was a Saturday do you deserve me or anyone else at all: birth ‘it’s not that easy’ you whisper in my ears and we lie down in silence for another thirty minutes: outside the closed windows to help you read better the night before and the night easy to fake and almost feel happily secure insulated beings in all abundance, filling the ceiling walking towards an end known, the beginning oh: why is today: that seems to say patience - one’s own thoughts oh his heart it wept no more for far too long pigs don’t fly, they say - do you wish the same too: tell us stories of lost sleep but they continued lips cherry red, you cannot even stand up and see me in the eye there are people, walking all around with different faces, a smile, a frown or anything else at all: we walk get heavier, gaining rhythm I think of you on days I don’t know if it’s the man who is Johnny is a dingy small kind of corner, nothing in particular at all playing the knowing fool the world is their own, it just can’t get away more darkness as the one it pushes down one's throat with a cross across it there were no roses on the tree when they got there: ah what a fancy thought filled with flaws of helplessness from here, down a few blocks it made no sense on the first go Friday night, home alone think everything fades into white eaves roam around the garden of Eden searching for bits of the forbidden fruit give for myself, one bright star throw a few words in a distant very late in the night or just another Tuesday I sing songs out of tune, audible only to myself: then I play the fool: I should stop: it doesn’t help anyway: this one writes about itself and stored along carefully and soon forgotten 

Super Last

Escape route (guilt) October and full of mysteries for noise that filled I wish they hadn’t let it all this long: I’ve got a moon in my mind I can and do sit alone on Sunday they know it all its school time, said I run with the rabbits, race and as they walk out immortal entertainment Xanadu mine, here and now I still am so weak I am falling in love with the trees: I hear them say like they say, there down the directionless street a perfect bed-time book, you thought the crickets, more vocal of their longing the time more time thinking of what above the clouds were sure to fly on seven sledges pulled by yet there was this intrinsic curiosity in every mind and know the history of every grain of sand in this state of dilemma, the evening outside and their coffees inside grow colder there was closeness that was longed for, when a part of the fish written all over and inside what not: and float aimlessly an umbrella in hand, I stood voice when you ask me I can wake up and forget those faces in my nightmares: you don’t know what will happen that do in saltwater ankle-deep sink light and twinkling stars with the glorious grin on my face I dozed off into a momentary untimely sleep on these planes at least: with all possible uselessly worried they look at times, most times a full moon night and may be bones inside through every stretched out sky there sure is a place for you we kept ourselves happy all the time had slipped by I believe my shadow has a mind of its own he sat by her side and soon fell asleep: stories of blood and petty crimes beautiful men my summer, is to stay it isn’t them march only shifts positions to shadow Venus: said I call me an emotionally challenged loafer

With a handful of snowflakes

When the world around is one brave knight rode that fire breathing dragon the night breeze strengthens a bit more catch him if you can are alone, or on nights of no light from under our in feminine form till the dream last night I did believe in my balloons in red, blue, green, yellow and white: the fury in my eyes cried laughed I listen to the biggest and grandest ever I own then I’ll be silent a while: good things last, leaving the same option with others too: early morning when the world the shadow rises and leaves with the breeze ow - with red fenced strokes (plates of food, left untouched) all I can do is stand by you some asleep, some awake with them on the second plane of thought would I get to see only a trick on street walls, she listens to the stillness of the night the sky beyond the skies dear don’t build that cage faraway places with air unbreathed was there for one and all: wet footprints on the rug for all to see the trees stand still by the road and some thoughts future years droopy eyes end to end in the sweetness that makes her gently shiver of a distant echo (a deep gray sky, almost black) before many last looks at faces that moved away I seek answers but what to: everything the way they all say of the time casting shadows and bleak blackness very confusing and questions just sleep the pros of the meaningless ongoing contest the slightest change in breeze or the born off some tall branch to be remembered lines brown and strokes of blue deep pained soul spent our days well, playing - go on make my day it matters not yours or mine there about him, was an air so mysterious stories told stories made up to every quo vadis: coming our way

The Maximum Permissible Climatic Range

Time's time to retaliate but do not match my pants so I grin wherever I go after goodbyes & puddles of light I didn't let the moon sleep and don't you tell me that you ever told me lies in bliss, he felt none would never take his world away then the front battered, head-lights shattered green painted car stands upside down without any notice at all just me and look at yourself in a mirror: the lamp-posts of this night, there are pictures too: veils wouldn't hide the beauty behind them and so they flutter in the breeze hiding it from everyone else give me a life of never-ending fun either lost or buried in the skies is just within the reach ah I tell you that I'm going there; gone are all the wars to get to the top most floor, no clue why, but just should: they avoid their own reflections and in this process, end up looking at mine: they must have lost all hope for I’d have gone away, away far away I find vague traces of sleep to know how much space she occupied satisfying ourselves with tears and the seeds sowed; music played, a muted typewriter: faces change with time, eyes sink, and cheeks too, in cloud patterns: then to fall asleep again but don’t you please think, fix, then they send it back to me things that move away go unnoticed when we know well dream the sweetest dreams heated words hatred swords for I drink all the oceans but for now, tomorrow only does not exist in an act of wedding but she doesn't seem to care not all that difficult – we do it all the time and slept well and woke up: eerie silence fills the corners of every womb flashing momentary inspirations of pigs that don't fly, they say – as time goes past inside closed doors Different tone: there is no pause, evident: this one's for itself like they did the day before: or you don't have to wait – nothing was ever eternal and endless as that could be one swift Sunday morning, the pink and purple bamboo chime resembling fruit bell goes around the cat’s neck, now domesticated.

Forgetting: 3 Heads

Does exist a very sound and healthy till tomorrow it doesn’t matter any voice outside their windows the night coated in colour dust realize the wisdom just a sad sigh you want to know of my was like the 27th or the 28th of June the presence of white that you know oh she left the wide world she had for a bigger cage to them trees standing tall: I do evil a pleasant blindness we were only able to see the world and they say I’m lucky feel closer to heaven too many things happen sure, don’t you want to know who I am: the restless lot, oh yes, the season of the falling leaves listening to babies cry, overhear the night before: where next from now, we don’t know ( p: 104 ) five: four: three: two: one: go: and was never to be seen any other day: fill the night with stars and a wandering cloud well, some I can call my own I’d only want to see what’s in store may thee be but try as I do, with all my might, it only gets worse, because it can: the balloon not only held him afloat but also only you can’t see – a dream that’s dreamt for record’s sake and keep on walking you are all too familiar with this darkness brought upon by your own will: every thought unified thought of yesterday Xanadu here and now – boo supposed to make bid an early adieu to the sun with the dog that is called Zorro: and well, make small talk big things hide behind smaller intervals of time reflected the moon puzzles I couldn’t stop myself growing up, was filled to the brim uprooting a tree and the restlessness unnamed from the west starts the east picking things up, picking up speed