premonition, ULTRA

==><== "Am I the only one who really care about cover art?" ==> -Chancellor Bennett ==><== <img src="https://docs.google.com/document/d/e/2PACX-1vSNnIfAeremPWt4hp5_Mf4hZGbQo8EbTpE7yEd5FTAr1EdvSqDoadHFw-fM-klKm612oidhtG2tKowL/pub" alt=" Right-Click for Beautiful Cover Art"> ==><== [[*INSERT TAPE*->Title Page]]

=><= ##//*premonition, ULTRA*// By Peter James Burke [[*HIT PLAY*->Intro]] (current-date:)

[[Intro]] //Prelude// [[Blue Subaru]] //Poem// [[SUMMER HOURS->Summer Hours]] //Short// [[Homo Angelus]] //Poem// [[Oh Child]] //Poem// [[Canal St. Angel]] //Short// [[i wrote this in high school lol]] //Sonnet// [[NY Jesus]] //Poem// [[iii]] //Epic Poem// [[WFTGOTBNTCPB68&69]] //Love Letter// [[Last Cigarrette]] //Poem// [[An Excerpt From a Book I Haven’t Written]] //Short// [[Futura Free]] //Poem// [[Ping]] //Short Story//

A wise man once said: “Dropped the mixtape, that shit sounded like an album” Before you go any further, I feel like I should explain what this is - I’ve always wanted to drop a mixtape - but being a musically challenged white guy really set me back on that front. So I filed that one under "probably not gonna happen," along with //Throw down a Windmill dunk// and //Marry Rashida Jones//. That is, until I began to try and figure out how to dip my toes into the writing world (//published// writing world, huge difference), and, naturally, came back to the idea of making a mixtape. It seemed like a perfect musical corollary to what I wanted to do with writing! Guys like Frank Ocean and Donald Glover – two of my artistic idols – got their start by producing and dropping their own mixtapes. They just wanted to get their stuff in front of people. They understood the importance of getting your voice out there. The fame and fortune comes later. First, people just need to know that you’re a creator of something – music, writing, comedy – anything. Donald Glover pretty much sums up what this is with one of his lines- "I'm not trying to come hard, I'm trying to come me/ That's why these older songs I used to make I release free" ==> - //All The Shine// <== So that’s what I’ve got here; me putting out what I’ve got, just to let everyone know “Hey, I write.” That being said, what you’ll find –if you happen to continue reading – is a small collection of my writing from the past few years (plus one selection from back in high school, please judge accordingly). Some of it is of a personal nature –musings on my life at certain points – and some of it is more imaginative. One poem in particular – //Oh Child// - is pretty much my entire takeaway from an undergraduate degree in “Child Studies”. Yes, that’s a real thing. So if you want 4 years of prestigious university education condensed into half a page, skip on ahead. Anyway, the final piece is a longer one that I’d call the ‘Single’ of the project – so if you read nothing else, try that one out. If you like it, check out the rest – it’s all divided up into nice palatable portions – no need to read it all at once, just sample around. Thanks for throwing on my mixtape. -Peter James Burke [[TRACK LIST->Contents]] Future Link to Podcast Version Future link to not-created website @PeterJamesBurke -Hit me up for a feature on future projects For- My Family EMN

''Blue Subaru'' //(2017)// Under cover of a blue Subaru My eyes are drawn to these lovely two From whence they came, I surely never knew But my faith in man, they sowed anew For on this warm yet dreary day To my hill they came their respects to pay Trunk open, like mouth of Jonah’s whale It’s there they sat and told their tale Though of their speech, not a word I caught Their image left me held in thought In what act was their life’s play That they should sit and chat on such a day? Bowl after bowl of lucid herb they packed But never their calm demeanor cracked Lady, hound, and worker past them walked And on and on the fair pair talked Then, when expresséd every word they had to say They closed the hatch and drove away Alone again on hallowed mound A simple truth of man I found: Though hate and problems in this world abound To shelter, friend, and love our lives are bound Now when in haunted bed I lay I make up words for those two to say =><= [[Next Track->Summer Hours]] [[Track List->Contents]]

''SUMMER HOURS'' //(2017)// I’m seated in this diner. She’s sitting across from me, legs folded under her. She keeps looking at me and she’s got these eyes that make me feel like I’m drinking too deep from the jug if I hold her gaze too long. The waitress takes our order. She orders a chocolate milkshake. “And for you?” “I’ll just have a coffee, please.” “Any milk or sugar?” “Uh, no, thank you.” “Just straight?” I always feel a surge of machismo ordering my coffee black. It’s not that I’m trying to look tough or anything, it’s just that I feel like that’s how it is supposed to be consumed. And you find out pretty quick who has good coffee when there’s nowhere to hide. Over her left shoulder - my left, her right - I’m treated to a cartoonish spectacle. Two men are staging a photo shoot for the diner’s dishes. Both dressed in black, they revolve intently around a corner booth, standing on chairs and leaning cameras to perfectly capture the steam rising off the eggs benedict. The guy with the ponytail catches our waitress before she gets to our table. After a few gestures and points, our waitress nods and goes back to the kitchen before returning with a picturesque milkshake and orange juice. Their tableau complete, the two keep shooting. As the waitress approaches our table I contemplate the feasibility of getting free food for life by snapping pictures of it. Our waitress has a matronly, but young, air about her. She seems genuinely happy that we walked in today. The sign of a good diner. “Haven’t you two been in here before?” I’ve never set foot here in my life. “That’s me,” She says with a warm smile. “I come in here and sit at that back booth and read sometimes.” “That’s right, honey. Well, what can I get you folks?” She orders mac and cheese and potatoes. I go for the french toast. As our waitress departs, I become the focus of her black hole eyes again. “I’m going to make you a list,” She says and pulls out a pen and her notebook. “Don’t look!” I comment that it’s a very nice journal and then heed her request. I look around the diner instead. It’s one of those diners that makes you understand why detectives and troubled lovers always sit across from each other in diners in movies. It smells faintly of Tarantino, or maybe something Lynchian. The diner is complete with a resident Latina woman, whose kind but troubled eyes stare out of the window as she transfers ketchup from an almost empty bottle, or efficiently and smoothly clears a table. I’m struck suddenly by the sense that she is thinking of a child and her presence becomes an awesome one. Behind her, muscled but smiling men bustle through the kitchen. Warriors of some culinary tribe, they bear tattooed arms and thick beards. She has turned her paper over, torn from her beautiful notebook. She stops to look up at me. I smile and look away again. I look past the men at the table at our left - my left - out the window. The two, so close, are carrying out a conversation that sounds wholly foreign, though I strain to hear them and the words I catch are clearly english. I understand then that these are two men between whom words don’t matter; they are at the end of a beautiful friendship. Their walk down the runway years in the past. Out the window I find the trees that remind me so much of home, and the mountains that remind me so much of how far I am. The diner is on one of those stretches of highway that has an alpine brook or a game-animal-themed restaurant around every bend. The long windows behind her let in the late afternoon sun, and its beams wrap themselves around the gaps in her golden hair, perhaps feeling like they’ve found their way home. The waitress brings us our food, apologizes for the wait though it feels like its only been a minute since we ordered. She ignores her whitish noodles to continue her list, and my mind wanders to her paper. She asks if I can read cursive, and I reply in the affirmative though I don’t really consider it a strength of mine. Some riff-heavy classic rock is playing, exactly what I dreamed this diner having, and a dreadlocked lady smiles at my air-drum pantomime as she gets up to pay her bill. I devour my french toast and sample her potatoes as she picks at her spread. She folds her list and I put it in my breast pocket, unread. We talk about some things that matter and some things that don’t. At one point I look over her shoulder at the counter as a skinny Mexican guy tries to hand our waitress a bill when she brings him five waters in to-go cups. “You don’t have to pay, its just water.” He sheepishly grabs the hydration pyramid and heads to the door. I look for the water’s recipients and find an idling U-Haul in the dirt parking lot, sun-worn but smiling faces leaning out of the windows. We finish up, no dessert, and she’s barely touched her food. Boxed up, potatoes and mac separate, I pay and we head to my car. I feel like they might not even accept real money, so I’m relieved when she hands my debit card back with a smile. Now we’re in my red Chevy, and the guys in black have moved outside, snapping shots of the diner’s big roadside sign. =><= //''Summer Hours Open Every Day! 7AM-5PM''// <== It’s 5:21. We’re the last car in the parking lot. She grabs me with her rare-earth-magnet eyes and kisses me. Black shirt camera guy is approaching vaguely. “We’d better go.” “Hey, maybe we’ll be in a picture.” The gravel scrunches as I pull onto the twisting highway. =><= [[Next Track->Homo Angelus]] [[Track List->Contents]]

''Homo Angelus'' //(2017)// I like to think that animals develop flight when they figure out ruling the planet isn’t all it’s cracked up to be Birds had their shot back in the day But dinosaurs didn’t make it up out of the streets Now they’re content to flit about the heavenly dimension, looking down on the lands they once stalked What about bugs? Insects? I imagine they had a chance too Some giant creepy crawlies whose protean exoskeletons ground away before we had a chance to categorize and natural-history-museum them Probably in some precambrian age Now they too, oft take to the skies to exercise that floating freedom I’m not sure about bats, however I can’t really see a blind bat ancestor stumbling around before deciding he should probably take his Stevie Wonder-ass up where there are fewer things to run into Oh well Though this does lead to my flying monkey/angel hypothesis Humanity and civilization ain’t all we thought it would be The Wizard of Oz got it right There is just something about giving up on the whole developed intelligence thing in exchange for flight capabilities that rings true I think of angels in much the same way =><= [[Next Track->Oh Child]] [[Track List->Contents]]

''Oh Child'' //(2017)// Oh Child, tell me of the world You, one step from oblivion And I, one closer What should I make of these shapes and lights That dance before me? How can I know the ball exists when it goes behind the screen? Tell me of the stories That flit from the forgotten phenomes of man’s tongue Can you tell the difference between a twitter and a tweet? What ethereal call Wakes you crying While I sleep? Tell me What is it to run To bite To crawl So long I’ve had this body I seem to have forgotten all Please Child, tell me why you’ve come here Was it choice Or was it fall? You know not our rules You know not our laws Oh Child, tell me of the world You, one step from oblivion And I, one closer =><= [[Next Track->Canal St. Angel]] [[Track List->Contents]]

''i wrote this in high school lol'' //(2013)// A dark and dreary morn it was that day, Upon my bed for too long did I lay Before I raised myself to go to work, Where I become a humble banking clerk. To miss the bus: it was my greatest fear. Today, ‘twas late, to say, that much was clear. My heart, so very thankful for this chance, I drank my coffee as I zipped my pants. With coat in hand, I prepped to board the bus, I scanned the faces for my buddy Russ. And in the back ‘twas him who I should spy And vain in effort to find a seat nearby “I’ll stand!” I cried, admitting my defeat, For on the bus there was no empty seat. And as I stood there in my own despair, I looked about at those who gathered there. If I was to be with them all the same, I ought, at least, to get to know their name. At first I spied a wife of elder age, The Daily Globe she turned from page to page. “I’m Jim” I said to try and start us off To that she gave only a flustered cough. But as I turned to greet another rider, She squeaked “My fault, the name’s Ramona Snyder. It’s awful that we’re only now to meet, With how the world’ll end within the week.” After I did thank her for the reminder, I turned to meet the girl beside her. ‘Twas for her looks I will freely admit, Near her that I did rightly choose to sit. A supermodel face did she possess, And so to her, my name, I did profess. Her name, I learned in time to be, was Clare Her job: a newfound office aid at Bayer. I’ll note that to a sharp and learnéd eye, A subtle wit, her looks they did belie. Now for the last of those to grace my group; A slow young man who’s known by the name of Soup. I’ve heard the name is meant t’ describe his brain, An effect of his alleg’d meeting with a train. While others say his often simple manner Is the product of a beaning with a spanner. Well even with no light on in the attic, The boy had he a flair for the dramatic. Now in the boredom of our daily ride, In me, their deepest fears they did confide. I’ll say, in truth, I did not want to hear it, But I have always been of a kind spirit. The first to speak was our good friend Ramona. An agéd woman of unique persona; There was one thing of which she was convinced, And that was that the world would cease to exist. Oh yes, of this matter she was quite sure, That by next week, the Earth would be no more. By way of tales, she told us only one. About the many things we should have done. //The Old Woman’s Tale// I once knew a salesman such as yourself, Who went to the doctor in regard to health. And though he was a boy, but young and spry, ‘Twas he then told that ‘fore the morn would die. Now in his grief he drew a fellow near, And whispered this appeal upon his ear: “Now I have lived but a fraction of my life, I truly wish that I had found a wife. I truly wish that I had borne a child, At whom I could have laughed and smiled. My parents I wish to thank the most of all, For they taught me to walk after I crawl. A nicer man to meet I wish I’d been, Someone more likely to forgive a sin. And in the end the thing for which I pray That I should be alive but one more day, And in that time I had before I cease, I’d do what I could do to be at peace.” I really hope you all took that to heart, For on your end, you have a chance to start. The boy we know as Soup, for one, was moved To tears in fact, I fear, it will be proved. To try and move his mind from such a thought, A tale, one well and fun, from Clare I sought. A tale she had, but not of such a nature. She told of crime against which she did labor. To us her fears she sullenly addressed; That she’d been hired solely for her breasts. //Clare’s Tale// Now let me say I know my face is cute, And mine own horn I do not wish to toot, Let it be on record, as well as on the books, My job, to me was given, only on my looks. The tale I wish to tell you all is for The pretty girl to be judgéd no more. Princess by name of Jane this story tells, A girl, the most attractive of the Kells. For in the land of Ire did she reside, And to a chief she was to be a bride. Invited to his battle as a joke, But no one laughed when she eventually spoke. For war she held a truly gifted mind; A plan for battle was by her designed. For years to come she won many a fight, And not by looks, but by her mental might. Now for the tale, I feel I’ll end it here, Will you again, a pretty girl not fear? Now this set Soup into a bit of fright, I heard he could not sleep at all that night Afraid of a model, come to beat him up. I swear, that boy had he a mind of a pup. Now at this point the bus had reached my place, My newfound friends I really could not face, I left the bus amidst our joinéd sorrow. I think I will be late again tomorrow. =><= [[Next Track->NY Jesus]] [[Track List->Contents]]

''Canal St. Angel'' //(2017)// I have a confession to make. I hit a woman in the head with a football this weekend. That’s not the bad part. The bad part is I thought it was beautiful. Mardi Gras is a time of lawlessness and celebration. I drank unabashedly in the streets at all hours to celebrate the first, and participated overly in the parades in solidarity with the latter. These came together to precipitate my fateful football toss. You see, I had finagled myself into an enviable position on a sort of stepladder that was littered along the parade avenue. These ladders were probably meant for children or audience members who could use a boost, but my 6’3”ish frame was loving it on this pedestal as I was vacuuming up the beads and cheap paraphernalia flung from the floats. Eventually, in my alcohol-focused retriever state, I acquired a green/yellow foam football and immediately began scouting for somewhere to throw it. My sights fell on the brightly lit, plantation –style mansion across the street, its enormous porch brimming with people who looked like they would brim on a giant plantation-style mansion’s porch. With no specific target in mind, I hucked the foam oval across Canal Street. The next image is burned in my memory. Ball in flight, I watched as a prim blonde woman emerged onto the porch with affluent delight. I watched as my paraded projectile collided with the right (my right, her left) upper quadrant of her face, arching her head back as blond locks exploded in an accentuating aura. I have a freeze frame stuck in my mind of her hair rippling away from the impact; a golden halo for a stricken angel. With this tableau in mind, I made my swift escape. As I descended from my sniper’s tower, I saw a fellow parade-goer who I had met earlier looking frustrated at yet another failed grab at flying beads. Handing him my beer, I flaunted my own bead collection and gestured at my vacated post. A clean getaway. As I slunk down the street a ways, I couldn’t shake the mental picture of the woman I had plunked. My remorse, disturbingly, gave way to an awed fascination of what I had witnessed. It was a beautifully human moment I decided - an illustration of the equalizing humanity of getting popped in the head by squishy sports equipment. At that instant, it really didn’t matter if she was the recipient of the dripped inheritance of the old money family that owned the mansion. It wasn’t that the beaning had reduced her in anyway, it had actually elevated her, canonized her through removing her shield of affluence and superiority (all supposed), until only her purely human beauty and suffering remained in that blissful instant. I felt like Cupid or something. =><= [[Next Track->i wrote this in high school lol]] [[Track List->Contents]]

''NY Jesus'' //(2017)// I love New York It imbibes my craving for homeless discussions I have a perverse desire to let crazy-eyed bums tell me I’m Jesus These are the street prophets I’m attracted to I’m not one for the catch-all panhandler Nor the self-proclaimed savior No, my fetish is for those bold enough to approach me Me specifically, out of the multitude who passes, and ask for a cigarette, man Don’t talk to me of the rest of their day, before or after I’m concerned with being the one they’ve picked from the crowd Not a victim, a Chosen One The acute spark in my eye tipping them off to my awakened state Rather than the mistake of eye contact Tell me I’m the Son of God enough times and I’ll give anyone $10 Well, maybe five =><= [[Next Track->WFTGOTBNTCPB68&69]] [[Track List->Contents]]

''Written for the Girl on the Bench Next to Central Park Between 68th and 69th'' //(2017)// I don’t want to say I picked this bench because of you I want to say that this bench was near my buddy’s apartment and it seemed well lit and relatively free of the usual bench detritus But in the same way that this crisp gray day Finally becomes the advancing season and the shifting winds have breathed life into a city drifting towards musty You in your hunter sleeved baseball shirt and enticing uncurious gaze and Slavic/Italian features that make me believe you don’t speak English very well Are becoming of this chipped hunter bench and mossy wall If we’re talking aesthetics I wish the shedding little tree was nearer and its fiery droppings lay scattered at your feet The ashes of your mantle or barrier to the world Oh - What’s this? You’ve acquired a tiny cigarette one of those slims they make just for girls like you You’re having trouble lighting it and oh how I wish you would turn and ask for a flame in broken syllables You’ve finally noticed me on my own hunter and concrete bench My red bag a clear barricade I most certainly clash with this serene scene I’m almost relieved when you look away but if I’m not mistaken here you are again stealing towards my chosen perch Alas you’ve gone the hermetic seal I’d hoped the night would bring has been broken despite my efforts time continues to flow past people still have to meet someone chores must still be done stomachs rumble and children yawn somewhere a lover waits longingly for the return of the other and somewhere too I belong 10/23/17 =><= [[Next Track->iii]] [[Track List->Contents]]

''iii'' //(2016)// =><= I. <== You find me talking to you on the tiled balcony We’re discussing the painting in one of the adjacent rooms and you smile because you know how you feel about art You inform us that the painting is your mother’s, and I understand you just a little bit more Though you already knew that See, I’ve only known you for a few transcendent weeks, yet I’ve just met you tonight But you’ve known you since you were a little girl running and playing through the flower lined streets of the island The only sounds are the muffled murmurs of friends wafting up through the villa like poltergeists or the laughing cries of a seagull somewhere in the salty black sky You slip seamlessly into you and I’s conversation and soon the weight of our words brings us to our knees and then on to our backs The night spins a cocoon around our terrace =><= II. <== You’re beautiful in darkness I tell you that You kiss me Then you kiss me And for the first time, you turn to yourself and do the same The night swirls on unnoticed around us My whole being is concentrated on our embrace and looking back and forth between your eyes and telling you what I see in them The sun never rises yet you are now illuminated by the pale glow of morning You are beautiful in the light I tell you that I kiss you Then I kiss you =><= III. <== The faint hints of the island awakening begin to flutter past us A creaking gate The whir of a bicycle The syncopated clopping of a horse and carriage Though we were never asleep, the moment of a new day beginning dawns on us Sensing this change on and in the air, you excuse yourself to try and get some sleep Leaving me alone with you With you on my mind, I focus on you I focus on the weightless curls of you hair I focus on the sickly sweet taste of your lips I focus on the perfect shape of your breasts I focus on the rhythmic curve of your body I focus on your whispered sighs I focus on you =><= IV. <== Sleep, like death, remains a mere concept that we are duly aware of somewhere off over the horizon, yet we cannot quite grasp or visualize So we chose to go buy a pack of cigarettes instead of concerning ourselves with it We leave your house and take a detour to walk by what used to be your own home We are greeted at the gate by a friendly-faced dog, and moments later an equally friendly-faced woman Through the cast iron you chat happily with the woman while I carry on an enlightening conversation with her canine companion We continue our walk down into town warmly satisfied from our respective exchanges =><= V. <== Strolling through the waterfront strip that puddles perfectly at the bottom of the leafy home-filled hills, signs of life evade us like the perfect word caught at the tip of the tongue Like fairies that disappear if you look straight at them, we catch a glimpse of the island’s inhabitants only for fleeting moments in our periphery Even the agéd man who we find in the corner store seems to evaporate once he has mixed us glasses of lemonade and grabbed a pack off the shelf Not a soul passes as we sit on the sidewalk and sip our drinks The morning light beginning its evolution into the engulfing summer sun Our search for cigarettes has become the search for a place to smoke them We agree that neither of us know what we are looking for, but that we will know when we see it This loose quest leads us along the waterfront where dark-skinned men sit on rocks and slip silently into the water in a manner vaguely reminiscent of frogs around a pond And silver haired ladies sit pouting in their face-sized sunglasses staring stolid over the sea And we see it An empty beach bar plays home to the fulfillment of our journey The odd leftover bottle or darkened ashtray our only fellow patron Cigarettes smoked, we begin our return Life has begun to retake its hold on the town, as the precursor to bustle is now bubbling through the streets This reemergence of reality only serves to contrast itself with the fantastic dream state through which we have been wandering We are invisible guests in this universe as we glide hip to hip down the middle of the street I’m afraid if I reach out that this delicate atmosphere will shatter So I don’t We just let the world pull us home To you =><= [[Next Track->Last Cigarrette]] [[Track List->Contents]]

''Last Cigarette'' //(2018)// I smoked my last cigarette/ Watching lightning from the hood of my car/ Which is funny/ ‘Cause I’d only come outside to catch a shooting star/ We can spend our whole lives searching/ For things we can’t predict/ Sometimes I feel like the sailor/ Who’s the best swimmer on a sinking ship/ I used to think I’d be okay dying/ But now I’m not so sure/ So I just blow my smoke into the sky/ And ask for one minute more/ I may watch my wife die before me/ My children never grow old/ And I may learn my lesson/ In a story heaven told/ But tonight I’ll see no message/ Find no answers near or far/ For tonight I’m watching lightning/ Though all I wanted was a star/ =><= [[Next Track->An Excerpt From a Book I Haven’t Written]] [[Track List->Contents]]

''Futura Free'' //(2018)// =><= Yes I know my future I guess I know my past It’s funny to look back on moments that I know will last You never see one coming But you kinda feel you could It’s like knowing how to drive without looking under the hood Then there’s all the in between times The ones I dream away I’ve learned they’re someone else’s who wants all of ‘em anyway I’ve learned to share your moments What you give is what you get I mean, what’re the odds of meeting everyone you’ve met I like to think that sometimes When viewed from far above Through ten-dimension lens the human footprint spells out LOVE Now that may be wishful thinking Cosmically, we’re a gnat If I’m just a particle in a brush stroke well, I’m okay with that Because every master painter Can only move his hand It’s up to the tiniest drop of paint to determine where to land [[Side B (//Ping//-Single)->Ping]] [[Track List->Contents]]

''An Excerpt From a Book I Haven’t Written'' //(2016)// Having left any adroitness, and perhaps more importantly, any concern for social cues somewhere in the cab, I almost immediately left Chase to a menagerie of grasping hands and pecked cheeks. In exchange for the tragic loss of my ability to explain my political views to men who really just want to describe theirs, the ~~lsd~~ gods seemed to have granted me the gift of dowsing and I located the bar with biblical speed. Luckily, the ol’ Government coffers had shelled out for a good bartender and I was able to order a beer with the communicative tools of a 6-year old mute who really needed a drink. With my perceived chances of getting kicked out already well beyond the critical point, I sent the bartender off with a card for my now long empty travel account before grabbing an enticing bottle of rum from behind the bar as I cast off in search of an oasis. The Keseyian strings of the evening pulled me through a pulsating sea of the politically relevant, and I remained largely ignored save for the observant few who eyed the loose rum bottle at my hip with ambivalent confusion. I jotted a mental note to consider this tactic at all future formal functions to really set myself apart from the crowd. At this point of what I hoped was the apex of my hallucinogenic state, the marbled checks grounding the expansive corridor had begun to form the board of a malignant international chess game. Prime Minister of Kurdistan to E6. The secretary of agriculture and his wife attempt a flanking maneuver on a seemingly isolated congressman, only to be thwarted by a remarkably fleet footed elderly campaign donor. The most powerful piece on the board moved slowly and deliberately and required all the player’s constant reaffirmation of position. I rarely actually saw the President, but I always had a sense based on the constant glances of the menagerie. Though they just as likely were directed at his beautiful daughter who wafted at his side, a social B-52, always returning to the drifting paternal carrier. A piece from some vastly different board game that must have been put away in the wrong box last time we played, I found solace from the hall’s black and white grid in the form of a much more intricately tiled balcony. Thankfully alone, except for two paunchy suits talking in hushed tones between cigarette drags, I gazed out over the city and took a pull of dark liquor in an attempt to silence a couple hundred of the brain cells who had decided that crafting otherworldly hallucinations required this current unprecedented level of cognitive activity rather than, say, any number of past collegiate exams. The strait swam before me. The city’s buildings congealed into a glittering scab crusting over the dark vein at its heart. A rush of temporal perspective overcame me, and I was transported to a time when all evidence of man had dissolved. The flurried hills still came from miles around to throw themselves at the water’s feet, yet now they seemed almost fluid, free from brick and mortar cast. A vague uneasiness pressed on me as I couldn’t quite pin down whether this universe predated the touch of man, or existed at some time after human residue had been ground away. Maybe it didn’t matter. Timeless Significance coursed from the strait and I felt myself to be an ancient settler, enchanted to stake my place on her shores for posterity. The two suits coughed in laughter and I was glad they hadn’t seemed to notice my treasure. =><= [[Next Track->Futura Free]] [[Track List->Contents]]

//Ping or: A Baseball Novice's Guide to Picking the Perfect Position// //(2017)// =><= -This One Gets Its Own File, Allow The PDF to Pop-Up Plz- (open-url:"https://drive.google.com/file/d/1b_I2UVL6L11nw_6zHc-2VVs0D-vlZxzN/view?usp=sharing") //**FIN**// [[Track List->Contents]]