We Lose Weeks Like Buttons, Like Pencils.

The Voice Of The Nickly Reflection Of The Moon Was Not As Deep As You Might Expect. It Was A Singer’s Voice, Though, A Tenor, One That Loved Itself Without Reservation. “i Feel Time Like You Dream. Your Dreams Are Jumbled. You Can’t Remember The Order Of Your Dreams, And When You Recall Them, The Memories Bend. Faces Change. It’s All In Puddles And Ripples. That’s What Time Is For Me.

When You Adapt A Book, You Really Have To Cut It To The Essence.

Better To Be At The Bottom Of A Ladder You Want To Climb Than In The Middle Of Some Ladder You Don’t, Right?

And We Will Be Ready, At The End Of Every Day Will Be Ready, Will Not Say No To Anything, Will Try To Stay Awake While Everyone Is Sleeping, Will Not Sleep, Will Make The Shoes With The Elves, Will Breathe Deeply All The Time, Breathe In All The Air Full Of Glass And Nails And Blood, Will Breathe It And Drink It, So Rich, So When It Comes We Will Not Be Angry, Will Be Content, Tired Enough To Go, Gratefully, Will Shake Hands With Everyone, Bye, Bye, And Then Pack A Bag, Some Snacks, And Go To The Volcano.

And There Is A Chance That Everything We Did Was Incorrect, But Stasis Is Itself Criminal For Those With The Means To Move, And The Means To Weave Communion Between People.