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 ^{(it's beta!)}

Fly to the stars. Take whatever you can get your hands on and fly to the stars. Without motivation, it’s amazing what could have happened. He felt like he can. It was past-tense, though. Some crucial gerund attacked him when he was already low, modified his perspective and took him out of the race. How can you take whatever you can if your hands are severed off?

Fly to the stars. I desperately wanted to watch billions of years toast in the heavens. I definitely wanted to watch. So he brought me books and big words, promised we’d turn would into did. Lifeless eyes of life-lived men questioned my comprehension in sneaky, guilty ways. But he helped me write numbers down and always would. Oh, how quickly would turned into something more. A contradiction, a contraction. Wouldn’t.

Sticky skies of blackened might grabbed at his collar. These hands were freckled and felt like children’s repression. I just like watching. We’d sit in that room without a ceiling—I always liked watching from the middle of the room. I wanted to compare myself to the rabbit; prepositional and silent. A cause for a clause, and hands ended up bracketing around him. Lifting him away, I just liked watching.

Fly to the stars. Motivation is your hands motioning for what will come. Hands were motivated for him and I was motionless to react. I felt like I could have, should have, would have. But I looked over all that I had before me. Nothing looked as promising as his first-person perspective. Covered in tiny white lies, blanketed in a sheet of dark matter is exactly how my self-image extracted. Expulsion and repulsion, impulse moved the fragments. An eclipse drowned my vision and an ellipsis obscured all that I might have learned. I didn’t make sense of it on my own, though. The smoky text on the yellow pages did. And perhaps, they still do.

But why do you want math to tell you a story? Predicates in numeric form arranged on an infinite structure are much too predictable. The stars tell better stories. Battery-charged litigation and lithium hues dribble from their lips, sparkle like Las Vegas and tear hearing to shreds. The stars toss pieces of him down and around; random, plural, and with lots of imagery. It makes for a stellar show. Shoemaker. And just like Jupiter, the clouds on my skin will be there for months.