The day collapses into a handful of tired bricks of sagging skin of a million things without complaint, sky grey again as an aging face a face without a discernable age. Probably 30, but hard to tell, hard stone on the ground outside of his window; the gravel there with weeds poking out, even though he hired someone to pluck those weeds out a couple of weeks ago, at sixty dollars. At sixty dollars, those weeds were pulled out, but those weeds are back again, and tonight it’s a grey sky, full moon dancing in bright orange socks with sunglasses on and sipping water through a straw from a Starbucks plastic cup with ice in it. She is fun.
The ceiling creaks upstairs, we hear a million reasons to get upset, but none of them touch the surface of the sky. We shrug our shoulders, look in the mirror, look out our skin, the strangeness of all those bumps on it. Last night there was a dream of a truck that kept changing colors when wet by the rain; she now comes wet. The sky however is not yet raining, but it might. Ceiling creaks in the stomps, coming from upstairs, all those reasons scattered across the floor. Crumbs of some kind, someone needs touch, thinking about a massage table. The sky, with clouds for wrinkles in its skin, those shoulders, bags of mirrors, hanging from the strangeness, all those bumps last night. There was a truck driving rain through a dream that kept changing colors. When she, the gravel gets wet.
Collapsing under a handful of vanished criteria, millions of skies greying into old age discernable and probably never upset. His window, the gravel of each moment, looking out forms the eyes of weeds, to poke at rain clouds. Weeks ago, weeks ago. Sixty dollars, 30 years old, sixty dollars, 30 years old. It must’ve been, it must’ve been last week. Full moon dances in bright orange socks with sunglasses, sipping water through a straw.