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How can I keep from rushing. The days are getting long and young things sprouting everywhere from the heads of the old. The nights are better than ever for being alone on the roof of a demolition site, singing a nicotine song to the stars. A plague of promises falls upon us and all I really want is to pluck one from the air to call my own.
Just one.

It's tempting to believe this is as surreal as it gets, in spring with seawater in the air and the gates of fairy tale worlds as close to lowered as they come. Summer's drunks are just around the corner; now is the time to drop acid and dig the ruins. But there's more. We see spring freshest watching it sting a new pair of other eyes. This is the loudest season. It can no more be patient than fall can be innocent. And I, I am thistle-down against the planet's turning.

This night is so young. I don't want to scare her under the skirts of a sweaty dawn asking too much when the sun's just barely let her out to play. I'm. Gritting. My-teeth. I wait in lamplight, get drunk on fridge beer, trying not to press my luck. When I go out it will be to locked bars. I go to pick through the night's trash for God's phone number in a matchbook. A froth of newly-minted secrets sweeps through the city in the baptismal silence before morning
and we can catch ours.

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