Song dogs in the hills that rise above the ocean. Music coming from the brush that lines the lookout. A cowboy hat on an escalator in the same house as Pollock. Translation. Transcontinent. Sing.
Wander on the top tube and bring the whole goddamn thing with. Write on the inside of cards and hand them out at the holidays and then wonder why everyone has strange side eyes. Bake cookies with judgement and make sure to turn the oven off because, after all, a broken ice machine never makes ice unless it’s sitting outside.
Call the police. Call security. Find discomfort in being uncomfortable. Live and let live, unless of course those that are being left to live are unlikely to and, while we’re at it, is it you’re place to interrupt anyway? Perhaps they’re hoping to die? Either way you’re going to have to check in to see if everyone is on the bus. Hopefully they are and hopefully they’ve found their seat and they’ve managed to store their foam cooler right in the way of the bathroom door so that every time somebody has to use that tiny little space it’ll be somebody’s job to move the cooler because that’s thinking ahead and it’s definitely thinking of others. It’ll be fine. Everything is fine. Everything is always fine. At least until it isn’t and by then it doesn’t matter and it never did and it never will and that’s just the way things go as long as things are going. Because they do, you know? They go. The things. They go and they go and they go. They go like a clock that ticks with broken parts, and somehow, on this clock, the expectation hand always seems to move faster than the our.