every great city will eventually have a great fire. just as dying is the slow process of drying out, becoming a lemon peel. i’ll be waiting for you at the edge of the great fire with my expensive teeth. just as the sorrow of blindness is alleviated by the smell of your shadow, or some shit like that. i have the same dream on different nights: while you sleep, i set our house on fire and then rescue you, wiping the soot from your brow, playing the hero with you in my arms. just do something guttural every time. be a night without moon. be the intrinsic color of water. be blue. just live like the movement of fire is calculated, like fire is the suspect & what we do inside of our insides is the crime. just as the sorrow of shadows is the smell of blindness, or some shit like that. eventually the great fire will fall from grace & we will become lemon peels a long way from home.