He awoke and it was that reverie junction where the glass block frames the avenue that looks like an instagram. There is a British sedan with a crashed bonnet violating the driveway but silverfish or cataract floaters corner the window access to the sky and her butt cheeks covered with white cotton grab my attention for just a second. I'm back in mental land where the 'heimers don't roam and see-thru non-pants lets the foreground feature the most mentioned gadget in the toolbox taking another bow. If fixation is the first word you get now it's like focusing on the starter gun at the Indi 500 instead if Danica's front end on the final turn. Even mental land is grounded enough to keep us safe as we watch with no fears of Pez ejecting from the throats of the assembled walk-ons. That moon may be 250k miles away but it's a touchstone for us cosmic capitularians who only see peace and love from a place carved out of caliche.

With just a tad more ambition, this story could progress instead of abruptly degrading into cocktail napkin thoughts. At least it's not runny ink.