Thousands of pieces race through the air.

Thick, transparent teal plastic shards.
Someone was just fed up.

Here is another story, the moon is absolutely perfectly round.


Harsh, distinguishable separation from moon and dark blue night sky.
The air is empty, pure cold, pure crisp, pure nothing.
There is a runaway. Running away in the night into the cold into the woods into the dark.
What to pack?


There is a problem when there is no desire.
There is a problem where there is sadness because of what the play-date friend's can't see. Everyone is swinging, back and forth through the air with tunnel vision of what's really out there. What is it? What is beyond what can be seen?
Everyone sees differently. Everyone feels differently.
There is a gray stool sitting
lines form shadows
No face is anything, each is just one more too many.
The runaway feels sad for the empty bed,
certainly guilty for the uneaten meals but only the tunnel itself knows what surrounds the folks who travel through it.


Some things can't be taught or learned
some things can't be understood some things can't be seen
Some screams well up inside into armies of fighters aching and pushing to release
You still won't see, even when they're floating above the June Bug's body
you'll see them but you won't be able to recognize them
The screams are too piercing too unappealing
they offer no more understanding than they would if they didn't exist
They're just there because I know they've been dying to get out
just dying