I rufuse to make it of my mind,
deep sky, blind orchestra.
I've seen your rivet eye loose mine.
My lover, pass by, pass by.

pp 12
I want to lie facing the clouds, watching everything slow down. I'm always spinning around like a stupid merry-go-round. As a child, I despised those things. Each ugly mule, twirling around. Circus music, blaring. You go up and around till you're head's sick, never getting anywhere. I did like when children would wine, they'd fight for colours they'd sit on, as if it made a difference. Their sticky fingers held those colours, so proudly.

When I was young I would pick the uglieast mule possible. I would close my eyes and try to forget where I was. I would clintch my teeth everytime I'd see my damn parents waving, every single time I would pass them. I remember thinking I'd leap off, just before they could see me again. For some reason I thought this was so funny

I seem to think of merry-go-rounds when my life gets good. As if I start loosing hope, thinking things could change back. How I would go sour once I went along with the loops. I'd see my parents standing there, waving their arms vigorously. Hugging me saying "you had a good run!" and then I'd have to go home.