Mountain ranges morning red bathed ridges stab up at the trembling blue horizon grey slides lazily off rooftops lands on the incandescent ground and dies. A flock of little men touch down on the thin surface of porchlight Dawn's footsoldiers return to march twilight across our faces skylites ignite and explode scattering shards of april around the room but no one even lives here. We're too busy crashing our cars every morning int he same house. Paving the same roads unwilling to walk them. And even when we extend ourselves it's only to be included in a moment that stands still so often we don't struggle to improve conditions we struggle for the right to say that "We improved conditions" And so often we form communities only to use them as exclusionary devices. we forget that somewhere p[eople are calling for teachers and no one is answering. somewhere a man stands walks across the room and breaks his nose against the door and somewhere else people are keeping records writing a book. For now we can call it "The Book About the Basic Flaw" or "The Book About the Letter A" or "Any Title that a Book about a Man that No One Cares About Might Have" And as we turn the pages we call out the sounds of a vanishing alphabet standing here waiting.