Beyond the good work of train travel I know you rise below a sunken ball of pain, strictly unearthed by qualified flower engineers ruined by homeless deities sent to the poorhouse by conversation stripped of its intentions, robbed of its bullets like a spider pruned of its tundra. I wonder how you’ll survive invasions of clowns and spotty bathtub releases of census data from plumbers in ancient times, started off at harvard with nothing but captured a world’s integrity with pleadings for bird seed and rapid intoxication through forceful bowel movements. Please, please unglue that billionth Big Mac from the roof of the Sistine Chapel.