In the time it takes to make bread, a wild pasture.Outside this thought, a song no longer than an inch.If there is light, it’s pressing down on you.Something stirs inside it.It is not so much lust you experience as it is its recurring engine.Boredom is not a new technology.It has no apparent safety valve.Recite that old line about cream rising.Top as operative verb.Verb being, in this instance, a hunger.You can laugh.Do it now, into this pinewood box, before the morning comes.Try to transcribe it.Be serious for extended periods of time.See how your wardrobe changes to match.Your uber has arrived.Half-sick you stumble out through the sidewalk.You recall asphalt but not its purpose.Where are you supposed to go.In the dark there is no knowing.Once, a tiny satellite circled the earth carrying a dog.There can be no word for a fear you cannot fathom.An infinite future tires you out.