If you chopped me down– next to nutty rings of ancient things would be transparent homes of wormholes that may tell tall tales of decay– What can I say, I wouldn’t lie to you, baby. There were one too many nights of kissing silhouettes behind rice paper doors that I couldn’t forget. Nothing ever makes sense, like that one time I almost drowned in the crater of a moonscape, with too much milkyway dripping, creating stalactite dinners for galaxy walker Texas rangers on their way home from decades of saving souls. If the world were like this, all lines of a vanishing point would only lead to fake winks, eyes closed to show the slopes of parabola mountains, plotting off your calculator graph and making all the little ones laugh. Might you be frightened by my knack of slipping back, I will put you at ease with a cup of cooling, calming tea, and assure you, “Naturally, on days of full moon imbalance, the waves in my brain change tides, pulling to an opposite coast, invisible to most but calling to me dearly.” Then maybe you’d say something remarkably dull like, “Mhm okay” and it’d be over with as simple as that.
