Soft flutter specks in sterling white blow west, and drift densely upward. The cotton kisses glide into faded blue tattered sky--graze and consume the oxygen where ever the leaves let it out. You rest your head on the evergreen plastic chairs, and bark when the dogs bark. You search as impulse for the crystal orange lighter you picked up at a gas station a mile back, and beat the Malboro men against your palm. Your fingers pluck a delicate stick from the package, pressing the filter to your lips, and letting the lighter flicker&catch the tobacco. Cantidate 1 drives a stick shift, in the same green car, as the green in your seat. The engine purrs, and his joints tighten&strike the pedal. Everything combusts, and the motor explodes in sound and speed. The stench of noise weaves through the streets, the houses, up into the pines, and far left to the patio where we lounge in summer solstice. You smile and tell us how you would've won him in a race last night, if you two had ran from a stop; but if I remember correctly, you did run from a stop. The wind whips me between my chin&collar, and I can't say a word, so I hold my breath while you finish the story. She grips the end of her arms, and pulls herself up from the seat. Her feet slip into the black sandals in cloth, and she shuffles back into the house without another word. We forgive and forget, lest I remind you.
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