Weirdo, I know what you're thinking, when butterflies play with your eyebrows. You think it excusable to have them do so. I tell you that it is so tell the butterflies go for it. It is afternoon sometime in Paris. I hear it's a cool city, but I don't know. My mind is now dedicated to another location, within walking distance of the train el and the rhythmic thumping of passing hours. I'll light a lantern and venture to the woods, barely seeing the traces of monster faces when my eyes are closed, but i am in the land of bricks and concrete when conscious. Nature is still indeed my nature, the scraping on leaves against street also natural, created by someone like I, created by someone of nature. Take me, the dull street creature, seeing the shiny teals and purples of mine subtler. I want you to take me to the sewer to the stink of this planet. It helps me to live to see the clothing hung out on lines, it helps me live to hear glass breaking, though the crack brings to sight exploding the place I heard the gunshot.