take into account the buildings which make sure of their own statues; they are pale and forewarned.  they are cheap and plastically born from steel.  i cannot write.  i cannot feel.  but with an iron-clad fist or curtain, the same, i am without a love for the unlovely and without care for the uncaring which do go weathered like the night into a dawn clasped tightly to a song which sings like mockingbirds and, rightly, from their wings.  for, they fly and they fly and cannot be flown higher than their might as they go gliding through the night. 

disguised as brutes dissolving like flutes whistling or shoes gazing, i catch the light and am now without a sight to be seen sighing.  nor am i a distance from myself.  nor am i a version of yourself.  i am a heightened state of existence or perhaps just a leavened state of persistence or maybe just a battered bag of bones still creaking or maybe just a laugh into a dark corridor.  i cannot sit here anymore.  i cannot stand there anymore.  i cannot – i can.  i can be a shadow of myself or myself hands in hands with shadows culled or retracted.  and though it goes to show the hair on end, it is merely a mere merely mere and cloud nine.