my friends have a home underground and seeping slow mysteries of place and screaming smiles all over the green hills peaking up above the vast gray square hard busy flashing rhythm of fun, parties, children, laughing, balloons, entirely not the old wrinkled witch in her mossy green hut in the forest by bubbling brook - no, far out and into the city rushing faster than gravity inward on ourselves to loop around and build a new giant carousel to ride. full of unicorns. and let downs, underground, again. pattern recognition building buildings from dust in the desert and mud in the bay slowly creeping out to say don't stop dreaming of a place more open and free? more beautiful and clean? imagined spaces tomorrow will remember a chorus of unusual noises caught in uncomfortable space bent around corners of uneven lengths topping sandcastles tree houses pillow forts build higher than the house!
an ending pause, in the shortest song,
of this life.
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