You can't talk to me - I'm the same man. I have liquor and I work and to feed my secret family milk from the vacuum rays of our inner planet. I came from shimmering mountain people, whose time was neither now nor whenever. Now, we're doing just fine - like the orbiting celestial prison our minds have envisioned. With you or without you, I have chosen the Old Man Sick Tribbet wedding dress to wear, and creating the Crimes of our god - unified and alone. For he who has collected dew at the hour just before dawn, I have saved an equinox. We will live - my secret family and I - in our own trousered, unremembered, human hearts. On this night, the wet grass will sway heavily; we will appraoch the dawn on a quiet woman's trousers - living to be.
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