The sunrise of the animals and whose human tongue of languages we tell the dream stories not unlike a silver chevrolet outruns the cops playing let us just stand here with our cocks in our hands whose ceramic bones are shattered at the ends of skies and skies. One of the best things about being alive is that anyone can climb the ladder to the roof of the Mojave Motel to see the sunrise early in the morning spread its heated rolling of the river into one of steam, the wetness at the back of your mouth was growing thin as you breathed and losing that as well, and the West, the arroyos speaking back to the dry crumble we had all become, causes us to step into the cultural warzones that were but the devouring mouths of awe even as we knew the end of us would be the end of us. We were not all that special. We were not much morally elevated. We didn’t know how the Internet worked, and we didn’t care to know, we were put upon. We did not organize. It was too much work. Our energy had been drained like a slaughterhouse. We told you the past was a different labyrinthine maze of tunnels under the streets of Jerusalem. Here was how the purge had gone. Gone to disappearance, gone to life. Humans just started dying in waves like Thorium’s electrons no longer congregated under asteroids, but sharing the same orbital zones as comets, we knew there were large objects, like the universe itself, hurtling through a void where there was no dark energy, while traveling as the universe, there was no need of disguise, or the kind of competiton with dark matter, that obviously could still move itself faster than the speed of light. Light, in fact, travels very slowly. It is a brake. Not an accelerator. Light is one of those things that are supposedly immune from too many questions. About light that travels like a pny at the same speed and always had, and always would, remain a law. Legality is always relative. Nothing can go faster than the speed of light except for the universe itself. It’s old. It can barely get out of bed. It hurts. It hugs the walls so it doesn’t fall. Come back to bed. No. Please, come back to bed and fuck me. What, again. Come back, and lay on top of me. You don’t have to fuck me if you don’t to. I don’t want to. Who is this inner dialogue with. Another strut and fret across the stage. I know who owns the new Mojave Motel. Now, we all have to pay to get up the ladder to see what the sun has done.