Here we are at day one; stimulants and oragami figures against my wall in shadow puppets. Crooked lamp posts and street lights flicker as the driving wheel turns on command; I demand. I thought a lot about my sorrows, and the guilty promise maker's excuses. I'm certain you were made too quickly-- about a decade's worth of gusts of winds too soon, so as your head felt so heavy and hurt just a tenth more than it should have. "What life," she thinks as she stops off of the sidewalk-- others pass and think, "What luck--" to be so beautiful, and hidden. I have a secret that isn't supposed to be shared, the rest of the mouths of this life will ruin it; echoes and off key, laid low sort of language ricochetting off of their un-polished tongues. She carries herself like she were Atlas-- a world to make an impression on by putting up with the weight of grave impossibility. Shackles of heroic strength mellow her, as its too much a handicap to walk with.

The Greek's had their methods, as do modern day writers. Atlas is a woman, today, yesterday and in 1980 even. It took three decades for her to realize she was really a dove and could no longer be caged by the awful gate keeper. "Aye, life.." she thinks as she flutters away like a dream in a tunnel..

A decade too late was a boy born who brought nothing but heavy harm and saddened, slow motion sickness to everything he thought up. "What luck," he thinks while he steps onto the sidewalk. The Greek's had no premonitions for him, but later, we would all begin to think he sped himself up, because she slowed herself down. And somewhere in between passing realms, they realized the relativity of a steady pace. He turned into a crow, to chase the dove, and whispered, "What love," as she smiled shyly. They'd met in the middle of 1984, as predicted by Orwell, the world was much too controlled for them to have been happier elsewhere. Their friends-- lovers of literature, met in subways and train stations; airplanes and plain faces fixated upon a couple-- the latter. How gorgeous is sanity? How refreshing is a breeze? Fighting an eternity to feel just the slightest breeze of relief, they found sighs against each other's neck was much more worthy of living for.