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Floating Machine

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And when the art teacher tells us to sketch on loose leaf, we’ll take it literally. We’ll run out and scavenge around for that perfect leaf that loosely fell from the mosaic of branches above us. And when we find it, we’ll draw on it summers of oblivion. Our pencils will bump over the fragile veins until it becomes 3D art, a bass relief if you will. And then, after school we’ll run home together, our feet flying as if on scooters, until we breathlessly reach the stairs leading down to our basement, that is actually our factory. And we’ll finish building the robot. You know the copper colored one, cause silver is too thorny, whose arms could pass as trunks. And when we’re done, it’ll take off our legs so that that way we can float. But we’ll make sure to program it to make us float, cause we don’t need to fly. We already do. And every time we touch we soar. No matter what it is. Fingerprint to fingerprint, knuckle to knuckle, even eye to eye across a throbbing room bursting at the seams with the smell of beer and rebellion. And we’ll make the factory seem like it’s our world. And even though I just used like correctly, you wouldn’t care if I didn’t. Because you understand that most things in this world aren’t definite, that they need that like, that similarity, to show how connected we all are to everything. But me and you we’re more connected than others. Everything about us works. Our tans mix together to make that perfect mocha color, almost the exact same as that ridiculously expensive drink that you bought me from starbucks the other day. Remember? That day that people stared at us as we went into the toddler store and tried stuff on. But we were being logical, we just wanted to be kids again. And when we’re with each other, we are. Even though we’re doing the most grownup thing we have ever done, that anyone can ever do, we do it in the most childish way possible. But that makes sense, because this feeling we’re feeling is shockingly liberating, the same way we felt when we were younger and that meadow, with the tall reeds and little buttercups, was our universe. That day when we used our lacrosse sticks as swords and our boogey boards as shields and we yelled to the world “I am the emperor of windowsills”. Because we liked the way the sun could shine in and tickle a windowsill, as if it’s rays were eyelashes and we were making butterfly kisses. But now our only kisses are with each other, and they make our lips feel like those silk pajamas that my daddy brought back from china that one year. Those red ones with the golden lions, and the curly buttons that made me feel as if I needed chopsticks in my hair, and thick glasses around my eyes, as if I needed to stay up all night with a pencil behind my ear and a coffee mug in my hand. Cause back then, in the meadow, we felt as if we were getting older, acting past our age when really we were acting exactly the way kids should. And now, we feel like we’re getting younger, like we’re shrinking into those emperors of windowsills. But actually, we’re living completely and perfectly in the moment, just the way we are, just you and me, floating in our factory. With our heads occasionally bumping the ceiling that we lined with pillows cause we knew that would happen. But it wouldn’t matter if the ceiling was covered in spikes and spears, cause nothing can hurt me, nothing can touch me, when its just you and me, and our floating machine.





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