Everything is happening all the time, reminds my Sheppard in A-minor, hinting that the delight packed into longing has to do with unsurrendoring, taking everything back to all the time where it happens into flocks-- Abra kadabra box sets, a wand is the opposite of gun, you got me there, trying to break out of a room made of marshmallows into a room made of taffy, which I will later try to escape from also, your curtain, your nomadic curtain, opens onto the rotating empty and a spotlight blurts out to the audience, deadpan purple matte to express a pause which is noble and soft stopping to accumulate delight without teasing-- someone has to pretend to be upset about the in between, the other one has to eat all the taffy and marsh and, regretlessly, and then wean herself off sugar even if she lives in the hood, especially, on the hood of Cadillac, no more sugar between her and adoration and the door and the driver ever happened
