There cannot be that many steps. It’s not possible to count them. There’s little frantic flamadiddles and insistent paradiddles and little kneeslapping sounds concatenated. We sleep in nests arranged like the lobes of a tangerine. I could cover the wooden ground in a few languid lopes and still there it is.
Daddy, are you talking with your eyes closed?
There are no curtains. We let what little sun we can put up a stump right in. It tells us all we need to know about the respiration of the Earth. Many darken their lives and then put the glowing clock right there to yell at them what the world is trying to whisper around the edges of the shade.
I pray every day to let Crepusculo and Aurora come on little footie feet one more time. I’ll whisper it one last time with my one last breath.