If all rectangles were squares it would be easier to find a place for everything, all fitting together and evenly spaced. And if we are going to be making mountains out of molehills, it would be nice to know where to find the steps to the top. As a change of pace.
Something unexpected is what we need, and in my head is a plan to glue harmonicas to the hands of everyone in the world to listen to the songs that their gestures sing. Because I have heard all of these tunes before. I want to pack a jar full of squares and bury it somewhere deep, so that by the time it surfaces again we'll be able to remember what it was we once saw.
It's only that the spring is there, just under my skin, sheep in wolf's clothing and china in bull shops, and I am tired of everything that was. In November I knocked softly nine times on a stump and wished for the future, and I grow worried that the future didn't hear me, that I should have knocked much louder, preferred my wish over a desire to not attract attention. Maybe this has been my problem with the future all along.