In a drive for shared numbers, the vest becomes the mark. Big newspapers roll into submission, go viral. The coffee cup, the coffee mug and the pot of coffee becomes sour. Tea leafs and sugar battle for the concept of flavor. Legs, hairless, smooth and non-criminal, women of ice, men of ice, Iceman and Icewoman, spread across dark skies in the form of small dots – lightning the way.
Wet farts. Plastic plants. Nick of time. Chewing gum. Skyscraper stairs. Bubble wraps. Pigs with pink ponytails and ties on. Invested in the vest. Peers and Gynters. No, wait, is this trolling? I think this is trolling. Right? Poetic blood singing? Oh. Never mind, then.
September is when you wake up. Past ending. Green days ahead as the end of November approaches. Even monkeys grabbing branches and tree trunks hover above the cloud number eight and seven to score points with an Olympic god upholding the maps.