A Hollow man who hangs his hat from a lamppost held in dirt by memory of makeshift drifts and snow, we dug holes too shallow - his hairy neck and hairy back told stories too unreal to tell and vibrato beats increased through the blowing of the trees -the sticks cracked as we sat back and did the old American thing of lemonade in the sunshine - back to back we stood upon harmonies, enjoying these and discarding these and if you please know what the breeze felt like cold and brushing tickling on my skin and my stomach was like a bomb shelter and my impetus to reproduce was nowhere in fact, but in theory I'd love to have a beautiful baby by you with shining eyes and parted teeth and open face with careful laughter and soft eyes and so much trust and life. And the kids up on the hill, stones spilling behind them, one after another running towards their futures so excited by the next episode, while the tribe in the rainforest moves only moment to moment without planning, just reacting, how does that make you feel? Your every moment here as a capitalist, as a consumer is planned for success and every second that you love is taken away by a half a second's lingering on the future of you name, in the jungle it's not that way, you run from tigers, and tend for weeds and chop the trees down for firewood and carve the stones.