While moving out of the yellow house, I found your soul in the basement. It was dusty, in a suitcase, but perfectly functional. My dog looked over. I showed it to him. He sniffed it out, then hid in the laundry. I thought about whether I’d use it or not. My own was old, but in pretty good shape. In the right kind of light, it could even look beautiful. Could a brand new room have the right kind of light? Can a brand-clean blue bring the best type of clouds? Dream on, little duck, little dustbill of ache. Wax on, and then off, about patterns of breaking. You know how to scar, how to star the whole city; you lower your face to the pool that consumes. Wipe out the sun from your eyes, indeed. Rip off that tie you were wearing to please him. And if, in the end, we are not indifferent, cherish the God that steams from below. You wanna get a piece of it? Marry the wary. You wanna go home? God bless you for wanting.