we aspire to write dream and death. the red against the white going clickety clack trying to make sense, make some beauty out of monday last's heartbreak and tuesday's lovely dolls and a little piece of joy here and there. we grow old, and the things that make us smile vanish more and more. then we become small and younger and younger and younger until we are seventeen and afraid of everyone else again. there is a flutter under our chest and perhaps we hold our breath too often. seventeen is a bad number to revisit. anything else goes. we see the color of bruises in the sky just after the sun has left, we see no promise in a word, we see things all a little out of place, as if someone else has just been rifling through it all. we must escape the tyranny of meaning.