a vision:nnnnyour ghost blowing up globes.nntightening them off with an x-axis-esque c-clamp,nnthen setting them down through the cloudsnnonto empty department store shelves.nnwhere they sit facing all sorts of islandsnnout toward dead wee-hour isles.nnnnhas the earth come loose from its galactic neck beneath you.nncut off above the cloudsnngone let go from the space surround itnndropped down done to the sun system's floornncrooked pearl of the one universenncleaved, fell rolling toward a corner of the cosmosnnin the blacked and quiet of come timennnnand you are all lamb, for this.nnnnspring is at your back againnnthis time rare with your clarity...nnwhile patches of you thought wholennhad turned up still.nnmade a tar of your woennand flesh there innnnnhave you gone half dead...nnnnyet...yet have you to let the worst most bennas if it were atlas to your world of cope.nnnnand no one is out there scarednnyou'd set your eyes off one the ceiling all nightnnin the darknnthink of a song or maybe breastsnnor missing body partsnnnnwithout a universal law there is no gravitynnwithout a gravity there is no atmospherennwithout an atmosphere there is no chance at lifennand with no chance at life...i don't exist.