In the ceramic desert, you called to me. I created you from other people, your body and your wit. What a nice desert, hiding my crimes and punishments. Holy innocents that aren't golden calves. "Only the meek...and then we have coctails." So bare and strict and bland, there's a blue sky ahead and all the posibilities ahead, many ways to paint the desert that is too vast to keep on lock and key.I don't see your melting clocks or microwave burritos. Just everything painted in bleak house desire. All the possibilities piled atop establishments, like old clothing companies."Our creative directors are 80 year olds and then we sleep, we tip over under titles and forget to breathe, we read books on breathing, we keep these books near, we watch social change, and then we sleep."Tip-over person, cherry-flavoured push over, to be touched is all we want, this isn't Latin or seventh wedding planning 800. How ever did you get into that class? You were born human you say? In a alternate, concrete, styrofoam, rock jungle? You must do all these things as the clock goes flash? It has no sympathy and your inner gravity wants to live in Hell sometimes no matter how much you lacquer and pray? You have enemies who say hello and give you answers with love and warm places to lay your head in a box for lemon cheesecake? There's some people that you know who's kisses last for twenty pages? Some people who die with only bloodlines and never any on their brows? In calculus lines eventually meet? We're all living in interiority? What is there to realize? Should we wander? What is there to wander? You're leaving me to stack books that you've written in the drawing room of your heart's mind, mind of heart, heart of mind? plié et fin.

 Wake up beauty.