Wednesday 7/08/2009 12:58:00 AM

The Voltaire's and the Homer's pluck on their infernos. She counts the rings. The math stutters. A light coming on slowly. Insignificant shadows in its wake. Disappearing.

You can't rush the illusion that is sleep. Random needles poorly stitching broken seams.

She was conversing with the alien. In dribbles of calculus. Fragments in the continuum colliding with the present. Drawing the stairs. In thirty six degrees. The amphibian. Solving the salt in its lungs. After the race is lost.

She tried on every gown. And each sparkling necklace. She fell asleep wearing them. Only to wake up naked.

You can. You really can. Draw pictures on the sun. If you're willing to go blind.

You can You can. Really work the time machine. If you press enough buttons.

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