take out the pure romanticism of the smoky focus-less sky and night time downtime. sitting on the steps with the porch light a small sun against the moon.
i am fixing my sights on every day and the day after that. my long range goal is two months from now.
where all i see is a summer street with a million cars parked and stopped and driving with the cross walks spotted with people. and other shiny people checking the traffic as they weave through it.
i want to soak in knowledge then. and live books instead of reading them. fall asleep with a crease in a page and always be five chapters from finishing.
winters clap a ceiling on the sky. a second ceiling. and no one can move as fast in the smaller atmosphere.
everywhere. my arms are moving now. i hate smoke because it traps everything beneath it. in the fall the air opens up. and the air crackles like the yellow edges of papers in the sun. but instead of hot old ashes. it is a cooler movement in the days.
and the sun sits complacently while i breath deeply and chill my insides with a few tugs of my diaphram.