This Is Christmas Metazen

1. VIEW NOW 2. VIEW LATER 1 I miss you. There is hope for you yet. If I could tell you I would let you know that if I could tell you I would let you know. And so, there is nothing to let you know, because there is nothing I could tell you, but if I could tell you, I would. Yet there is nothing to tell you, so there is nothing to let you know, but I can’t tell you anything, let alone nothing, so I could let you know, if there was nothing to know. If there is nothing to know, I could tell you, but there is nothing to know and nothing to tell.

But know that if there were something to tell you, if I could tell you, I would let you know. Hit F6.

Stop all the clocks. If I could tell you I would let you know to stop looking over your shoulder, smashing statues of salt to pillars of salt, foating on eastern seas via eastern seaboards, on top of sanity and salinity, yet still at the most lowest point. If I could tell you I would let you know to stop looking over your shoulder, looking east through skies like lead, American beauty roses choked to create dance-foors of LED lights and broken martini glasses, please watch your heels, kick them up. If I could tell you I would let you know that you must leave water and public doves, orange and peanut butter to return to water and public doves, orange and peanut butter as harsh and as ferce as tigers in an ice storm leaving children stranded elsewhere, stranded at airports. Partly plane, partly palisades, you escape to eleventh foor atriums (one foot in front of the other, the cyclical nature of ground) peering over into lobbies, elevators and balconies as vortex, endless loops. You say I sleep better after removing dark chocolate from gold foil from red and orange bedding from pillowcases from pillows, and while I don’t agree, I can understand, despite bedrooms at home with higher thread counts and energy colors, hues driving you to solve algorithms, a magnifcent turbine, heat without passion. I’ve never been where you have been. I’ve never been in the same place at a different time, points of reference non-existent. I’ve never been in the same place at the same time, attempting to fog up unfoggable mirrors with the power of multiple water-heaters to serve a highrise commercial commercial, steam from suites and singles. Despite evaporation, despite mist droplets mixing with private airspace, despite breaths of water slowly rising like heavy cakes, spinning like roulette, despite wishing the Rankine cycle was ours to seduce, to turn, despite looking back over shoulders, despite wishing for dead salt to weaken bonds to saccharine, sal-ila to sakar, for us to fall from clouds together, to rose water, despite all this, despite. If I could tell you I would let you know I know the hima protects paths to waterways that I will never cross and never break, azizam. But amber lights from underneath pink pumps bounce off tan skin, sending the glow skyward through Class G and E airspace, moaning and scribbling a sweet vision of elsewheres.