Another mailbox with a lump in its throat. Caught on the drive there, like a virus catches on. Important letters to send; busy, busy, busy. If you can believe it. A barn so perfect it could only house endless flows of stench-free horse shit. A bit chilling to the eyes. No rush. Melancholy beneath their angelic vocal cords. Whatever it takes to Ave Maria. Dulce et decorum est mori. Really, the point, at your leisure please. He doesn’t scare her. For how eccentric, how pathetically odd he is and she’s fine with that. I’ve sung this way since paper pilots wore leather flaps over their ears. I’ve also never seen the animals. Ugh, wrong notes. You can let go now, you neurotic sack of... Incredible how well we craft illusions out of reality. You can let go. I always thought the universe was bigger. Not to sound ungrateful, but turns out someone left their plastic model next to a set of steel bells. And it hit me. How did they even get there? Like ticks on your skin. When did they cross over and start biting? They must have borrowed some poor sap’s webbing. Can't sit around on a branch all day, right? Busy, busy, busy those ticks. I'd believe it. ONLY ON A TUESDAY ONLY ON A TUESDAY WOULD THIS EVER HAPPEN. I guess Thoreau Never heard of “when in Rome.” Please, let go.