Revisitation of the thibehind. Flood back, crank that shit. The prince speaks in stereo, imagining what silence looks like. People talking in misplaced units, minutes for length, two miles from making bail, Eric was on the Road with the appreciative deceased. Eyes in the back of his head, calling the ringleader out. My nose is running, yeah? Here's one for you, "505-2814," coming back from the ER. Two days in a row. And what is this street, a stereotypical autumn scene? A obelisk of balls, automatons on the prowl. Clouds of butterscotch, I need a pick me up. The clank and shutter, inhale and get more: greasier, softer and more ductile. Cumin beings in the salsaria. Some of us get to bed at ten, and it feels good, dammit. Knowing upon whose treadmill we run. Waiting for the letter, creating the past, the love lost, the bonk and brull. My knees buckled and my shinbones laced. We'll see how We feel about it tomorrow.