How much time is there to speak an ocean at the multiverse? Maybe ten minutes, maybe less. We'll keep the settings on bright this time, unless our eyes get tired. This isn't the time to pick a lane, the clock says it's all-the-flavors o'clock and my alarm's been pummeling the blanket fort I made like today's the last day to close the sale. The window that displayed all the wonders held in my hand in the previous rotation was frosted over with my own breath and only now that that we've turned on temperature control are we even able to drive straight into the highway we were always meant to coast.
Are the new jackets helping at all? Are they keeping me warm or are they just keeping my ghost from flying straight into the unedited sequel? Have the lights touched everything we wanted or is there an elephant graveyard in need of a feather-duster and a Marie Kondo novel? Maybe we will never know, but it's faster this time, faster than the five minutes I freed from fetching fancy fiction for fire fighter fans -- FINALLY burning out the darkness, even if that sap is closing the refrigerator on me.
Don't count me out, in or on me.
I'm shoulda woulda coulda-ing all over fearfully tangled loops and shall-will-canning into a quantitatively eased driveway without solar lights, tilted in intervals that spell out the fear that compels me to live the happiest life I can afford fencing the scrap scattered and postured and carefully poised for that moment when the waterfall says hello.
Hello World.
