The only thing more annoying than the wet bullets of sweat running down my face were the real bullets of lead whirring past my face. As I blinked the salty stinging from my eyes again, it flashed on me that it was an overwhelmingly foolish thing to try and pull off an armed robbery at the mannequin store, in the middle of July, and in broad daylight. At the time of planning, I thought it stood to reason that no one would suspect such a rash move, thus granting me the strategic advantage of pure, distilled surprise. The mannequin store being directly next to the police station was another element of reverse-psychology that had backfired. So when one of the patrons lucidly dialed the authorities, I had to bolt with empty hands. I had actually wanted one of the mannequin hands that was posed holding a very large and sumptuous diamond, but I felt I had to stuff something in my pockets.

I was also starting to wonder why I didn’t rush immediately to my car when it was clear the situation ran awry. I even left the engine running for a seamless getaway. I suppose panic makes fools of us all. I dodged another speeding capsule of death. I didn’t think it was quite fair for the police to use real guns when mine was only a squirt gun. I couldn’t even use it as threatened as it was jammed from the time I tried loading it with strawberry jam. I suppose hunger makes fools of us all. I knew there was a dark and dingy ally up ahead I could dip through, sandwiched between two competing delicious sandwich shops. I thought the cops wouldn’t dare thread their multi-ton hunks of metal on wheels through this narrow urban needle.

The bastards did it. The potency of the headlights grew stronger as they ravenously gobbled the distance between us. My first saving grace was that the alley was too thin for them to comfortably aim their pistols out of their windows. The second was the large and over-stuffed dumpster further restricting the clearance of the strip; there was enough for my lactic-acid-logged body but not so much a police car body. I heard a cacophonous crunch as the metals collided behind me. It was enough of a stall to escape the alley alone.

Returning to the sunlight, I knew reinforcements would soon circle the block by more legitimate means of traffic. I didn’t have much time. I did, though, have enough time to pause and flip a coin to determine the next course of my route: heads I head right; tails I tail left. Everyone knows any excellent plan bears the element of surprise, doubly so if the planner is also surprised. I flicked my quarter into the air with my thumb and watched it perform an amount of frantic rotations that would give any Olympic diver tens across the board, maybe with the exception of one nine depending on how it stuck the landing. I caught it and sighted the reverse of the coin. Left it was. So I took off running west down the avenue, only to glimpse a “one-way” sign directing south. I would be running straight into the police’s open, lethal, or optimistically, judicial arms. I suppose random chance makes fools of us all. Still, I sprinted onward. It occurred to me that perhaps instead of running myself into heatstroke, I could try hiding in a nearby building. I could now make out the pitch of sirens around the bend wailing louder.

With urgency, I tried barging into the closest building to me. The door was locked. I ran farther down, trying the next door. It was locked even harder somehow. Why were all of these businesses closed at such a prime, auspicious time of day? I suppose economics makes fools of us all. Now panting like a Siberian husky in a sauna, I reached my third and final option as the city block selfishly terminated after this building. I heaved my shoulder into the glass door as I had figured it was the quickest entrance if the door indeed allowed entry, forgetting to factor in how much pain would occur if it didn’t. Fortunately, it swung in with butterlike smoothness. I toppled down and slammed onto the flooring, undoubtedly bruising a substantial portion of the left side of my body. It couldn’t have been a tighter timing; I saw the nosy nose of a patrol vehicle crowning around the corner as I dove. I made a hasty crawl underneath the windows which were painted with backwards words in vivid, audacious colors that I had neither the patience nor desire to decipher. Tense with a grueling cocktail of anticipation, horror, and prayer to some anonymous god, I listened to the engines and sirens doppler past. I didn’t stop listening until the preying orchestra diminished beyond the horizon of audible perception. Then I sunk and melted onto the floor, plastered with a grin boasting the girth of relief.

“Was that part of the routine?” a voice startled me and my smile dissipated. I looked around the room, the cones in my eyes slowly interpreting the light diffusing into them.

“Huh?”

“Was that part of your routine? I guess if the rest of it maintains the same level of theatrics we can forgive you for being two hours late.”

The room was diagnosably depressed. Matte grey cement comprised every surface, which may have explained why the damn floor was so hard. There was a circle of metal folding chairs entrapping a white plastic folding table. The table was populated with red cups and a rectangular cake with white frosting while the chairs were populated with a range of adults and children. The back wall sported a banner spelling “Happy Birthday Remy!” with a unique hue for each rounded sans-serif letter. Ebbing from my confusion, I was able to process what the crotchety old woman had said. It then flashed on me that I had made a horrible decision in wearing a clown costume as my robbery disguise. I suppose fashion makes fools of us all.

“You are the clown we hired, right? Or were those real police cars that you were running from?” Her words rang with a slight but perceptible echo from the near-unfurnished room. Her eyes narrowed at me in sharp suspicion.

“Uh, no! I am the real clown you paid money for as you can tell by my costume. I am Chauncy the Clown!”

“I thought your advertisement said you were Glimbo the Clown.”

“Oh, that’s just a matter of pronunciation. I hear that all the time.”

“Okay. You best get on with the rest of the show since you took your sweet-ass time getting here.”

This was a sallow, soren destiny to befall me. I abhor the art of improv. I’m a staunch believer that a firm, reliable structure is the key to comedy. I had taken one improv workshop before but that was only because it thought it was going to be be an “improve” workshop centered around self-improvement, the misspelling being an example of something they could improve on. The things presented there were an affront to jokes and good humor everywhere. It was an upsetting experience. I don’t wish to think about it anymore. And now I must improvise a comedy show of the utmost prestige or otherwise risk my painted, colorful hide on the streets. I would probably be captured and hauled away within minutes with my abundantly visible visage. I then considered that a jail cell may be a more favorable outcome. However, I didn’t want to stain my shiny clean criminal record, so I decided to let loose and live in the moment.

“Alright, then. Hello, children! I’m Clancy, or whatever. Are you ready for some good and wacky fun?”

The audience returned quiet, empty stares sterile as a shrink-wrapped operating room doused in rubbing alcohol. One of the children let out a tiny cough, I interpreted as a slight pity to me so the room wouldn’t be completely silent. I appreciated that. I knew I was going to have to tap deep within the rancid, sweaty pits of my one-day improv training to satisfy this crowd.

“Somebody shout out an occupation. It can be any occupation! This is sure to be a very entertaining activity for you all to watch and enjoy.”

“Comedian!” a child wearing a sort of ugly blue shirt on the outside right of the ring shouted. I felt a stab of insult at this, as if they didn’t expect me to be of a comedic persuasion already. I mean, I wasn’t, but the costume I thought was fairly convincing when I bought it.

“Now, someone give me an adjective. Remember, it can be any adjective!”

“Funny!” a child near the middle yelled. Another irrational pang of offense rolled through me. I was really banking on the costume’s inherent context of hilarity to really carry me through this ordeal, but obviously that wasn’t going to work. However, this did give me a shining opportunity to pull some of the finest one-liners out of my bag of jokes, which I imagine is Versace and crafted with black, luxurious leather. With expert pantomime skills (which I learned during the improv workshop), I feigned lifting a microphone and leaned on an invisible microphone stand.

“What do you call a deer with no eyes?” I paused for effect, “No eye deer!”

Confident I stuck the landing, I anticipated the assured wave of laughter. I received nothing of the sort.

“Did you get that joke from a Laffy Taffy wrapper?” heckled a small voice from the left. I did, but that’s beside the point.

“My ex-husband used to tell that joke all the time,” whispered another, more adult sounding voice to another adult. It then flashed on me why the name Remy was so familiar: that was the name of my son’s best friend! Then it flashed on me why the kid with the ugly shirt looked so familiar: that was my son Emit! Then it flashed on me as to why the sound of that aside whisper was so familiar: that was the voice of my ex-wife Melinda!

Damn me straight to Hell right now, I thought, struggling to keep my composure in check upon this soul-hammering epiphany. Our divorce was messy, and not only because she served me the papers while I was at my landfill job. In the end, she won custody of the kid, the dog, the house, the car, and, worst of all, my favorite set of salt and pepper shakers. She left me more ruined than the great lost city of Atlantis. Our marriage had been faring fairly well, or so I thought. At least up until I became fixated on stealing that diamond from the mannequin store, that crystalline fruit plump and bodacious, acutely ripened for my harvest. Five years later, here I am, craving the sweet sensation of the universe subducting me through its fabric and into indescribable oblivion. One solace I had was that it was clear she didn’t recognize me through my expertly applied mug of clown make-up. I learned such a skill as it was a part of the one-day improv workshop.

“Is this the best you got? Your $2,000 deposit is why we had to book this shithole venue. Give me a refund or I’m calling the police,” said Mrs. Crotchety, which had just flashed on me that she was Remy’s curmudgeonly grandmother and guardian, Doreen, with whom I arranged several playdates with. Not between us, but for our children, of course. I wouldn’t want to play with her anyway, the curmudgeon she is. She also denied me the one time I asked.

In a stroke of improvisational genius, I realized I had a wealth of information residing within these people. These people that possessed no suspicion or clue as to who I truly was. Information I could exploit for a stellar psychic act, the likes of which had never been witnessed. I kicked into a high, divination oriented gear.

“Hang on, just wait a dandy moment here! Let me segue into the next part of the show. Now, it is a well kept secret that I, Glimby, in addition to a hilarious clown, am also a gifted psychic.”

“Your website did mention that.”

“Oh. At any rate, I will need a volunteer. I will let the ether guide my gaze.”

I closed my eyes and slowly and gingerly waved my arms in the air, thumbs pinched to my index finger. I also hummed for an added dash of mysticism, pretending that I was a microwave to really sell the character. After a few seconds, I spouted my predetermined target.

“I’m sensing a name that starts with the letter M. I also sense that it ends in an A. There seems to be an I in the middle, flanked by an L and an N. Then I sense that there is perhaps an E and a D, two more complimenting condiments for this delicious letter sandwich. Is it Melinda? Is there a Melinda here that wishes to join me up front?”

Melinda stood up from her seat, a look of genuine surprise on her face. Dare I say attraction? Perhaps subliminally the decontextualized timbre of my voice reawakened buried feelings, warm and fluttering. Does she pine for me as I have pined for her alone, cold and weeping every night on my lumpy mattress, listening to old Taylor Swift CDs? In my wildest dreams I had never imagined to be this close to her again and now the weight of reality was almost too heavy to bear. I had to stifle the welling tears and emerging lump in my throat; the show must go on, unimpeded by petty, personal drama.

“Me- Melinda. I hear a whisper from the ether. It is telling me that it has been five years, three months, and sixteen days since you and your husband have been divorced.”

“Wow, impressive! Scarily accurate,” she said in her tone that I could never recognize if it was earnest or sardonic. I choose to believe it was earnest.

“The ether is now whispering to me that there is a rift in your heart that has never been sealed since. It howls yearning melancholy when the bitter winds of your sundered spirit blow through, only to be hushed and reconciled if you are reunited with your former lover and father of your child, Emit.”

“Uh, I don’t know about that. I actually feel pretty good since the divorce. Great, even. I’ve made great strides in my career and I’ve never felt freer. He would always go on about stealing this stupid plastic diamond from the mannequin store. I thought he was joking until one night I found him hunched over his desk red-eyed, secretly making plans to do so. ‘It will make us rich, I tell you! We shall want for nothing!’ that idiot would tell me. That’s when I knew our marriage was a mistake. And also our child is named Ethan.”

It flashed on me then when I eyed the diamond as I was robbing the store, it did have a distinct plastic-looking quality. Another devastating blow to my already fragile mind. It was a fake; I just didn’t want to believe it. It felt like my tender heart was imploding all over again.

“Okay. Return to your chair.”

Melissa returned to her chair. I was crestfallen. This was the worst birthday ever.

“Could you maybe include the birthday boy in this? It is his special day after all?” barked Doreen.

Any enthusiasm for the show had deflated from me. It was all colluding to be a resounding lost cause. My ex-wife felt nothing for me, the police were probably going to lock me away, and, on top of everything, Glunky the Clown was going to have to refund the $2,000 deposit. Just another reason to despise the wretched art of improv.

“Yeah, sure. The mysterious ether tells me that Remy, the very special birthday boy whom everyone loves, should come and join me up here.”

Remy waddled up to the front, saturated with a mixed expression of excitement and embarrassment. This poor kid. All he wanted was an exceptional appearance from what is presumably his favorite clown. All he got was this unqualified, renegade, bumbling imbecile of an impostor. I’m sure this is all my ex-wife’s fault somehow.

“So, pal. Is there anything you want to ask the mysterious ether?”

“Uh, does it have any cool presents for me?”

Of course I didn’t come prepared with a present, an absence that would be just another brown, insoluble splotch on this catastrophic failure of a day. To humor Remy, I plunged my hands into my deep and billowy pockets; perhaps there would be some spare lint to bequeath. My fingers felt around and identified the unmistakable smooth, hard plastic of other fingers. Interlocked in my own hands, they reminded me of the gentle, meek grasp of Melinda. My trophies from the mannequin store excursion. The only product of my miserable heist. I would be torn to depart from this meager haul, but I sensed the boy would be even more torn without a consolatory birthday prize. In the spirit of jovial childhood wonder, I presented him the mannequin hands.

“No way! God is real!” Remy exclaimed shrilly upon sight.

A buried memory then crawled through the topsoil of my memory like a zombie in a zombie movie; Remy was obsessed with rings. Every time I picked up Ewan- I mean Ethan, I would see Remy outside decked with a shiny ring on each of his short, chubby digits. I recall his adorned jewelry would be different each time I saw him. Even now his fingers were spangled in gold and silver bands. Of course he would want a set of false hands to proudly display his rings when the alternates are not in use.

“Yes, yes! The ether has known of your love of rings and has bestowed to you these hands. Take them in merry peace.”

Remy walked back to his grandmother, babbling on about his new precious plastic hands. Then I heard the front door swing open and I saw a clown crash to the floor, undoubtedly bruising his entire left side.

“I’m so sorry! I got here as fast as I could and I assumed battering myself through the door was the quickest way to get in,” the clown huffed out while getting up and dusting himself off, “I tried my best to be here on time, but I realized I had mixed up my days. When I noticed, I scrambled over but then I was shot at and then arrested by the police. Apparently they were looking for a clown that robbed a mannequin store? No self-respecting clown I know of would do that. Once I was able to prove my identity and that they had the wrong clown, they let me go. I know my website says ‘no refunds,’ but I will fully return your $2,000 for this misunderstanding.”

He then took notice of me and his painted frown turned even more sour.

“Oh, what the hell? So I’m a little bit late and you decide to replace me with whatever old clown that happens to be on the street? You didn’t even call to make sure I was okay! I’m Glimbo the Clown, for Christ’s sake! What happened to community? What happened to kindness?”

The crowd stared at us in silent shock. I stared at Glimbo the Clown, unsure of how to assess my next order of operations. Only Doreen was able to retain some wits about her.

“I’m calling the police,” she announced.

“After all I have done for you? After I single-handedly saved this party? What happened to community? What happened to kindness?”

“Yes, hello? I need an officer, please,” Doreen spoke into her cellular telephone.

So I bolted out the door, turning left, but only after flipping a coin before deciding to do so. I kept running without a set destination in mind. I am still running to this day. Last week I saw my name and face in the paper with a headline dubbing me “The Outlaw Clown” and then in smaller print it said “who loves improv.” What a horrible combination of words, words that were supposed to be describing me. Was this some sort of karmic punishment? Had I transgressed in enough severity to warrant this? I suppose life makes fools of us all.

I always said "we" in reassurance

As if there were inhabitants,

Or an ever-peering audience

I guess I half-suspected

You were witnessing and listening

To me discover every puzzle piece

Now I see; it's about time we meet

After all those days in retrograde

It feels nice to be spinning straight

I am sure you're, too, enthused

But as we exit from those traveled years

Where do you suggest we go from here?

You always said I wasn't worth it

All the work I spent building our core

Would always at least an atom short

And all the seeds I delicately planted

May as well just wilt away

(They'll never reflect the light of day)

And to think! I was believing

That smug fog on my inner lens

You breathed to occlude-

-Hey, may I interject? You seem stressed

Your muscles feel all tight and tense

So I'll suggest to you that you should stretch

Bend at the waist

Lower our arms

Use them as weights

So here I rest as I'm encompassed

In the warmth of friends from far away

And light bleeding from the window pane

I gaze at the path behind me

It looks so much greener than

The earth I first traversed and tracked

And all the songs I chose to sing

Are still heard swelling endlessly,

Still enchanting with their melodies

And I feel whole; and only half afraid

So you ungrateful, incessant pest,

It's my turn to speak, you may not interject!

Your arms dragged us through the sand

Then you jammed us in that trench,

Ashamed of your insignificance

I promise you I've shown you my best

And although I've lived this long,

I'm not done living quite yet

I don't think I am something

That the sun will eclipse

When I'm hidden behind walls

Constructed by others' wrists

And I don't think I am clever

I'm just a voice that retorts

As I'm swallowed by the flood

And the waves that I ignore

When I left the attic empty-handed

I shook all my dreams awake

All my joints have cracked and rusted

There's no use to run away

As dusk rears its head

On its long body of night

It's abundantly clear soon

There will be no more lights

So I wish I had your answers

Or had some advice to give

But how could I impart wisdom

When I don't even know how long I've got to live?

You were born to this world naked,

Appraised and adored

You were made a blank canvas

To impress and record

And I completed that proverbial "we,"

So inexplicably bound

And we'll share this flesh detail

As long as "we're" around

Oh, how we use this vessel,

Your hands like anvils

Compounding words of wisdom

To smith our tools

And you came home to a warm household

Stocked with fair amenities

And you approached each scholastic endeavor

With savant-esque ease

And after graduating with your papers,

You stoked a flame of your own

And with your one and only you scaffolded

Equally shared bones

And oh, all the seasons push over

Like bumbling brothers

Eagerly awaiting

To take their turn

And the cycle continues to spin

Each day a passing glint

I must say I'm most impressed

By all this time you collect

They found your body naked

On the bathroom floor

Now, I'll spare the grotesque details,

But it was a scene to abhor

And you spent hours evaporating,

Too weak to stand

Until your scarce visitor had entered with

An outstretched hand

And now you sink slower than ever

Next to a pane of passing weather

With only its filtered sunlight

To grace your bed

I am grateful for all I have learned

But before this bridge is burned

There's one last question I must arrest

Have you had time to reflect?

In your old age

On your vain mistakes

And regrets you made

All the things you've lost

Your void memory box

All the opportunities you had left unaddressed

Have you had time to reflect?

Have you had time to expect

Any company

In your fleeting weeks

Between bouts of sleep

Any caring hearts

That know what you are

And can stand to see you at less than your best

Have you had time to expect

Which exact steps come next

As you ration every breath?

Your movement feels so uncandid

As the fractals form under your eyelids

You take a look around the room

At these faces you swear you must knew

Compelled to speak some advice

You say, "You've got to live your longest life."

*Keep your hands above your head

Keep your hands above your head!

Oh, your hands may be dirty

But don't let them sink below again

Keep your hands above your head

Keep your hands above your head!

Oh. your hands may be dirty

But wash them in the sink instead*

Well I had to burn the bark

And I watched the sparks illuminate

As the sun wound down I saw my skin dull with age

The warmth from the flame's

Been converted into ash

And I fear this scribbled map

Has gone sour a few miles back

Maybe this wandering

Is a stage for strange comeuppance

In the perfect inferno

I'd never be able to tell the difference

If I'm present within these woods

I must have sprung somewhere

And it's clear the clearing up ahead

Is a place for my route to be repaired

Lit by the morning,

It's time to rectify my quest

All this harbored grief and near repose

Are about to intersect

The view beyond the glade

Shows the flood will still sprawl

But if that's where I stand

I don't want to know where I'll fall

I got the call to pay my regards

Before my stomping grounds

Are turned to rummage yard

Up those wooden stairs, I marched

Through all those darkened doors

Betwixt too familiar art

I breached into the attic scene

And caught a mouthful of dust

(Which covered everything)

And within rows of towering

Cardboard tombs I found

All these different versions of "me"

Don't tell me so

All these frames were left in shadow

Don't tell me so

I can't imagine those eyes closed

Am I wasting your time?

By being inelegant?

By veering off road?

Am I wasting your time?

By being inanimate?

By being a ghost?

I suddenly became entranced

By internal elegy

For those wasted plans

The stream rushed swiftly past

And I begged to float away

But you can never truly turn back

As I looked at the capsulized list

Of scattered artifacts

I had to admit

After every hand that's ticked

There are some things that I still miss

Don't tell me so

There's no light on in the window

Don't tell me so

There's so many years that

I'll never know again

I am wasting your time

By being a counterfeit

By looking below

I am wasting your time

By being inadequate

By being disposed

Will it be dark out?

I used to love how the moon would breathe

Gentle wind across the silent town,

Playing with the silhouetted trees

"So what do you say?

Do we take a chance to sink or swim?

Or would you like to uselessly wade

In the obsolescence of your limbs?"

Well, I'm standing at the cliff, looking on downward

With one foot in front and one set back

If I stumble toward the sea and become submerged

How much of myself remains intact?

Even lovelier still

Were the embers on the mountain side:

Little incandescent films

In which the actors compose their lives

So I propose we meet

I'll wipe the sweat spawning in my hands

And I'll take a running leap

I won't know the difference between wave or land

Because at a certain height things have the same impact

"Did you actually think that you could be dead?

(Even after you heeded the consequence)

Hold your fragile frame and try to relax

(You do know that the worst is still yet to pass?)

Did you get all you expected?"

As the whir of my joints hum aloud

I don't even know if I feel stronger now

Is that shine of the sun still meant to endow

(On every little cell that dares to sprout)?

I guess I'll wait until we build eternity to figure that out

A spectral song hummed above the whole grave plot

As I was ushered into the cavity

By a show of grace (or compulsory display)

You were stationed to lay right beside me

First we spoke pretty small; you didn't feel sick yet at all

And I found the movement of your face mesmerizing

I got lost in your sea of curves

But I needed your form to be preserved

And I'll embody the archive before it's erased

Because what's a mirror supposed to look like anyway?

We turned to jeer at the bodies that brought us here

Hearing laughs from our invented audience

Then we traded digs at our personal superlatives

As if we had anymore need for preference

Then the sky synced up with the sundown in my gut

I can feel the nausea gnaw at my stomach lining

"So what do you think the last thing you'll be thinking will be?"

"I hope it's something more cheerful than dying."

"Well, I'll bet you the stars

We'll be shrouded in lantern light as they enter the yard

And we'll drink their vials clean

And be cured of the chemicals as they let us set free

And we'll go down our own roads

That lead to our homes and those we still know

And we'll remember this night as some strange, distant dream

But I'll cherish the reflection that you cared to share with me."

The vision ceased and my eyes were growing heavy

But I could swear that your stillness was smiling

I was born a black sheep in the hospital

Made to wear a thinning coat of white wool

I know this city's gold is malleable

And I'll be damned if I'm played the fool

I didn't want to admit it

But the details seemed to slip from out my fingertips

When there were hints within your rhetoric

This is a life that you no longer want to live

But if my instincts prove right

I know their guard's down at night

I guess our window would be slight

But we could slyly slide by

Or maybe you want to stew and rot

And forever mind your thoughts

But if not let's scale the gates and get lost

You turned from the skyline and breathed a gasp

As if overwhelmed by the colorfast

Between our makeshift, nomadic camps

Our ghosts wear new names and covered tracks

You didn't want to admit it

As if the words left an indication of how we used to live

If only you could tear from these elements

And return to a world a bit less imminent

But I thought we'd agreed

That this was cleaner air to breath

Without the clinkering of shackles

And streets of disease

I never promised it would be perfect

I merely asked if you would turn

And you did

But now there's fire and there's flood

Through which we endlessly trudge

While the mud floors my boots

And the smoke fills my lungs

Maybe that city is all that's morbid

But those buildings would be warm

And at least I'd live

But I guess I see

How I'd be a thief

And your seconds are

What I would reap

But did I take

More than I gave?

I think this is an argument that's best saved

For a better day

The slow-sharpening breeze barely stung my eyes

I've had worse thorns in my side, I hypothesize

I saw the grey overcast crawl, but there laid oases of blue

And I could prey upon their solace for this trip overdue

"Curse your barometric bones! Where's that faith in me?

You act as if I don't know each peak of those marine valleys.

If we cast off shore with haste and lather some elbow grease

We'll be home all safe and sound before the first drop can breach."

Well, imagine racing a storm

Just to chase the calm before

Sometimes I need to speak a bit more clearly

And with emotion

So we set our wayward sails and ventured out to sea

But I feared the hanging blankets made it all look like ink

But we kept full speed ahead as the air grew morose

And the far hills lit by lightning seemed less and less rogue

"You know we're not made up of steel! There's still time to flip!"

"Well, you can rest be assured your sentiment's ridiculous,

But if you do need some reprieve, and if I'm not mistaken,

There's a small plot up ahead we can dub our haven."

Well, imagine maintaining the peace

Just to falter behind the teeth

Sometimes I need to breathe a bit more deeply

And with conviction

Now I don't care to feel displeasure

And the dampness in my socks sure isn't helped by the weather

And I bowed down to assimilate

Within the torrential waves that begged to decimate

I should the constellations even when my eyes are veiled

But somehow my internal compass returned discrepant details

So, I was forced to take a plunge and fashion driftwood raft

And when I find my misplaced rock you know I'll be climbing back

But if I fall again

Will there be someone to catch me

When my arms are broken?

Because I will fall again

Who will be my cushion

When I slip from the crow's nest?

Onto a meadow overgrown, I stepped foot

My body felt lighter than the air I was just breathing

And over a translucent shoulder, I saw nothing but the weeds

And they signaled for my instincts to start fleeing

This calmness was cut by an overwhelming flood

Of questions demanding where I'll be

Who will I be?

Oh, Sister Sequoia!

Have you heard what our bishop said

About the lightbulb's luminescence

And it's eagerness to spread?

I'd feel my own filaments

Recoil at the awe

Of that beastly orb of glory

That just hangs above us all

But I remember you'd said something

That still reverberates

Of how we all eclipse the sun

In our own little ways

If you build a looming tower

Or simply walk outside

If you see your cast companion

That's your win against the light

Sister Sequoia!

Have you heard what our bishop said

About the trails of our transgressions

And how they follow us 'til death?

And I feel blind

By that epic I was penned out

There's something I understood then

I hope I understand now

I will never be someone else

No, I could never be someone else!

And yet I embarked on that bridge with so many t's

Left uncrossed

I can't let my electricity decay

And become lost

By some kinesthetic wish I'll devote my limbs

Back in those woods

(And scrape sky and blanket the ground with "good!")

So into a future once unknown, I stepped foot