Spires. The dreaming kind.

My son, Sam, at three and a half, had these keys to a set of plastic handcuffs, and one morning he intentionally locked himself out of the house. I was sitting on the couch reading the newspaper when I heard him stick his plastic keys into the doorknob and try to open the door. Then I heard him say, “Oh, shit.” My whole face widened, like the guy in Edvard Munch’s Scream. After a moment I got up and opened the front door. “Honey,” I said, “what’d you just say?”
 “I said, ‘Oh, shit,’ ” he said.
 “But, honey, that’s a naughty word. Both of us have absolutely got to stop using it. Okay?” 
He hung his head for a moment, nodded, and said, “Okay, Mom.” Then he leaned forward and said confidentially, “But I’ll tell you why I said ‘shit.’ ” I said okay, and he said, “Because of the fucking keys!”

“I could never see myself moving in the suburbs… There won’t be nothing to rap about except the birds.

Autumn by Rainer Rilke