This morning fire truck sirens out the window and I couldn’t tell you the last time I saw a fire, a real one, perhaps it was yesterday when I was looking into a scented candle, and there it was a flicker, a flicker just as this is a flicker, a flicker of light in the window breezing past the open-morning-air into this here sensation like a cabinet with toothpaste and deodorant awaiting usage, or, nearly used placed behind mirror glass and held there—air in the belly when breathing deep and the morning enters sirens out the window and it’s a beautiful grey morning, nothing about it worth talking about, except it’s grey and rainy and it’s not always rainy especially after leaving winter alone in the cold heating up and melting all over the surface to suffocate at its own pace—as she is in another bed in another location, yet side-by-side at this same instant of earth turning just like everything and everyone else. I hear those trucks outside not far from here, what are they up to? I do not smell smoke in the morning entering this room with its hazardous coughing highway filth polluting every bird call quickly influencing each breath as it becomes shorter and shorter, but of course those are the lengths of night, as the days have stretched themselves long and we can see all their parts hanging out over the mountains, large cats stretched out with their bellies showing, so peaceful, but we know if we approach them—that’ll be our necks for breakfast. And what might I have for breakfast, some eggs? Eggs are as common as a fire truck outside this morning near a bird call is not, and the common will have to do if there’s a middle ground between the average male going bald and the rest of the eagles waiting to see what will happen with their claws and their skulls in museums made for scientific inspection. Like what holds us in the eyes of a morning grey sunlight, finding warmth in a cold breeze through the open window, and thank goodness I don’t smoke nor smell smoke but I hear those trucks outside and I can’t see them, they must be in the other neighborhood of the houses on the other side of the backyard, I hope everyone is okay. But we all know not everyone is okay in this instant, we don’t know where everyone is, but we do know not everyone is okay. Many are okay with the circumstances they’ve been provided but many are not. And so why hope for anything, crystal balls and gazing into a flame doesn’t prevent a fire burning up from the faculties of knowledge from whence psychic information is portrayed, however it is possible if we did know the course of actions about to bestow upon the face of an instant, perhaps we would have some active say in the determining outcome of a moment thought to be pre-fated. But what’s the matter? Fire trucks outside, I don’t smell smoke, and apparently no one is screaming. You know I bet those aren’t fire trucks but garbage collectors making their rounds.