You were the kind of poet that doesn't write unless it's on air. After all those letters to December without postal interference or stamps or those gritty brown envelopes you loved so, I find it hard, still, to catch your escaping waves of thoughts. Honey, they're starting to oxidize in the stratosphere. Your mind, it defies gravity, huh?
This was what came out of all your past limbic system tetherings. My regrets are all for the veins on your fingertips cut off all the outlets of purge. Gravity stopped being a thing. You thought you were capable of thinking through feelings, started telepathing your consciousness and sending signals in waves, knowing well they're gamma rays to me. Psychics' never been to Mars.
Whatever.
This whole place is cited to your head and your prophecy is this. You lived for this.
