Hand me another popsicle from the back of the icebox; one of the bright, orange ones that taste like summertime feels, those few months when the world makes sense; when everything is at full peak, brimming with the sensation that one might indeed recognize God when you see him again, when the skies are lined with a purple shrink haze like the collar of a coat made of sheep. Am I making sense? Shit, I haven't felt like this in a lifetime. All of my days are spent bent over numbers, molecules, time. Speaking of, what are we going to do about the budget? I have killed for the budget.
And this is such is a beautiful room; how the pale stripes imprinted upon the walls cross one another as souls in the nether sphere of Heaven do; how the windows let the moonlight, that delirious moonlight, in to soak across the tiles. I need things. I need a mango in my hands; a fat bundle of fruits from the ripe backwoods of Kenya. I need you tell me what we're doing to the budget.
What do you mean I'm slurring?
I have things. I have bills tucked into the mattress; I have a bullet in the brain; I have a suit that fits like skin. I have a wife the picture of sunset. Hand me the telephone, I have a need for her voice down my neck. I have the need for the world at my feet. I have the need for a dogfight. I have the need for a cool, translucent sip.
Hand me the drink. Come on, man. Don't be selfish. Let me ride the horse of dreams.
Let me go. Do you have any more? Do you have history on the line? Do you have the budget? ]
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