The coda; the pause and hum. The instant recognition. The survivor instinct; spotlight drenched megalomania; infant death syndrome; blinding searing insight with too many adjectives;
fashionista sipping java on ledge of portent, mildly congruent with former selves, constantly aware of onlookers;
The depressive mindset lifted and expanded into antitheticals and recursive institutional bureaucratic jism; spread wide enough to dry and fly kite like in park, elicit comments from on-lookers about diaphanous transparency and willingness to achieve and strive higher. Commitment to principles, you respond, starting to get the feeling in your fingers, the rhythm of the day fills the negative space around you, as it was lost a few moments earlier.
Pause and hums and nips and tucks,.
A conversation, it is, however dire, however superfluous; easy excuses are too easy for me now, however sexy they look;
dance in air vent air like cotton candy; prance along windowpanes like spanish guitar; trill into the dense edge of evening, the undulations of my corduroy, in the all night long good will basket, soaking in community-minded fungus of a thousand crotches and ready to be recycled again into another person's enigmatic livelihood.
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