"By the twenty-third passenger window on the midnight train I wasn't supposed to take, you asked me if I was seeing anyone and I inhaled stars, binding them in a boxed set in my respiratory machine's gathering madness and the stars' velvet aurora lights the soul strings of my soul and lights the edge of the howling window like nothing I've ever seen and without knowing it or thinking it I respond that I see you. Because I do. Somehow that stolen collection of December stars reconstructed the language of my stringed respiration so that it was unable to orchestrate quite the same, while you and I balanced elegantly on the air reserved only for triple trombones and splitters of majesty."
"A cast-away graveyard of cigarette butts and homeless hearts. We try so hard to walk, anywhere, besides the sidewalks of life. We design walkable rollercoasters, and then discover they already have a father and mother."
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