What is the angle an angel uses in its descent from heaven, in its wayward journey through the lives of man, in its wingless shrugging flapping motioning moaning mores? How many on the tip of a thimble, how many on the edge of a glass, how many on the rim of a lampshade, how many on a star, how many on the moon, how many on the sun? What day, what word, what subtle gesture will entice their movements momentarily to perturb? Where for us art thou?

In the garbage heaps and city dumps and dumpsters and medical waste sites I could go searching, waiting for the face of the dreams I've never had to say something wonderful to me, to say something like stop. It's alright dear, I'm here, and I intend to continue. There will be time for you and I again, there will be time for us. There will be time ahead of us again I promise, around Saturn around May, there will be so much time in front of us. Things can't always work out the way you've planned, spirits in the stars are not nearly so powerful as men. I feel you in the morning, before I open the door and give it all away, when some of this is still mine I feel you and miss you and I love you and any thing you I can. It wouldn't have been worth all the trouble anyway, it is almost never worth all of the trouble. Let's save it for Saturn, in the rocket ship I build you to take us through our satellites; people would have been proud for us, for our children.

There is a deliberateness and purposefulness about their actions that he can do nothing but admire. If only we would make our designs with the weakest in our hearts and the strongest in our mind. There will always be an aged woman with a proverbial street to cross, and there will always be a young man with a proverbial cross to bear, where the two intersect we meet ourselves long enough for proportionally sustaining amounts of inspection and admiration. We are fools for thinking that the steps of this dance are reproducible with a careful analysis of motion, environment, past, present and just then, we are fools for considering ourselves accidental perturbations of matter, we are fools for waiting on a scientific tomorrow that will never dawn.

Liquid beauty dear, liquid beauty. You said, so its going to happen anyway, so let it happen, let it be. And I stood up and looked away and down and made my hands into fists and stabbed them into my pockets.

We do justice to the morning as we stifle our recurring bereavement that we will never be judged justly for our dreams. We will struggle through our afternoons and evenings to lay down with the hope that tonight will be the dream that will drown our lives in the supple sense of contentment. The sweet relief of redeeming release, is reciprocated with morning's momentary torpor to buffer us from the reality of our attachments. Tomorrow has come and the sun that accompanies it flicks angles of blindness through the plate glass on the sliding door.