So many flowers. I don’t have time for them all.
So many bees, so busy busy.
In great numbers the mind is broken and our parts just start moving on their own.
I dream of one flower, and the space to be with it.
We’re all just ghosts, and tweets, and hotmail accounts, and leaves, and feasts, and farts…
but we’re also everything packed into a tiny ball as seen from space,
there where everything is perfect, and everywhere else where we scramble as demons,
we are the same.