New York (Pondering Concrete Cookies)

You once crunched concrete and thought it was wonderful, fluctuated joyfully because of a well-timed blink.

"I shall stick my hand in to this rusty blender, because I've always done so, because it's a comforting feeling, the banging and crashing of the blender on my hand. My fingers get twisted until they're shaped like a heart." That's the residual concrete talking. That's the part that wants the hand in tact. That's the part that makes the worm comparison, perhaps because the concrete rubs together making an unbearable grinding noise. But anyway, you will someday discard your cookie, discard the rust, and on that day you will grow another hand (well done, good man!)

This is the...amiss...now what, says the gentleman with the prominent nose (no, not THAT gentleman, but perhaps my equivalent, remedy for days of large mud puddles.

Mud puddles are okay, but not because of a man who dressed up as an alligator. That would be a man with a hat who died because of youthful art project squirt.)

Actually, mud puddles okay because they really, really are. Because they're part of the field.

I remember that concrete cookie. I remember the taste leaving an impression, I remember the fluctuation, I remember the window on that large clanging metallic shape.

A big, big blender, so we'd all bounce off each other and bang on the walls, and eventually heal and see the green. Good luck!