I like their machines. They've got a pale, peachy glare, and obviously like to bathe in pearls. I wouldn't be surprised to hear they die on the river next summer, or leaving the bridge where  divers drown with broken necks. The kings of mythology are out of earshot.

Sirens, I'm easily distracted. Strays, ditto. And I must have offended the muses with narcissistic defense mechanisms and by flashing passing traffic. I hope they know it wasn't meant to go that distance, but I have no regrets. That's the best defense around. In judicial matters, the ebb and flow of convictions and careers blossoms by proximity to remorse and gavels. A bejeweled veil and natural hair color, enough rain to grow through every season. Chains like nails in a tree. Suck it in. Big sky, an awfully large head to dream. A system, most importantly, of abject clarity. Without paperwork to hold, the need for shovels. The need to etherize the opposition and commit arson. The stale odors that need a breeze, and professional cleaners. Risking impact from a passing tram, the street below feels just right on my feet. I've got arch problems, and require the tracks. The abyss of casino compulsions. All that I love is too clean for me to touch.