revenue delia tratorria Polyester, molten lava; you sink down four inches into dinnertime, making circles out of windmills and soil where blisters once were. You’d better mark the sky wild magenta, because the clumsy stratosphere breaks like a tooth, coils hollow like a carpenter’s hand that lost its stroke. These are the lies you told yourself instead of dreaming. Leisure suits manufacture and yield less restraint than all the fires shrinking for lack of proper nutrition. You are only as robust as oxygen that chooses to feed you asphalt when it could have amnesia, leave the world deflated and your hands to hold copper.