I’ve come to tell you that you’ve been playing second fiddle to faithful pets of paradise, dusting off ancient riddles to one-up lion-hearted jesters, using a neoclassical sunset as your power play. There is no need to ask who can talk the talk when there is a bouquet in our midst speaking of passion innocence passion innocence — my one true wild side, waking again and again to the celebrity of rose-tinted histories describing my fate as a matter of method and economy. Who is to say what is a cakewalk and what isn’t? We’ve all been hit at some point in our lives by a sugar rush of buzzwords, cardstocks nesting in their aisle, cooing of rhyme and reason. Birds and bees bent on the legalisms of light. An act of worship is an act of survival. Sometimes, I think of thumbing the master switch with you, whisper utopia into your ear then run off to tell the disciples of crop circles what they’ve been missing. At ease, pill pusher. There are no more questions left to conquer.