there's a crane out the window, resting parallel to the horizon, gently rocking ever so slightly up and down like a see-saw of epic proportions. the art's building clock is still stuck at twelve, i don't know how long it's been like that, or how long it will stay, but it irks me. redundancy steals its soul, meaning as much as time piece as it does as a tree. it'd better if it were a tree, a lot of things would be better if they were trees...

i stopped writing, maybe that's why

peace, love and understanding