Vignette

 Wine spash, music splash, writing splash, ribbon sash.  No-sun-warm-on-skin-today kind of day, an all-of-a-sudden kind of day, who-says-it's-not-okay-anyway kind of day -- a wash and wear rocky tumble in among the jumble of jump and scratch, a pearl button down the hatch and see if you can catch the note in your throat or sagely page down, scan and pan, span the gorge, "by George," because Mad as a Hatter, nothing matters, we're all born buff and buff return, no misunderstanding who's in charge.  Large places go empty and dry goes the sea, for all the juices flow inside the hearts of souls who have but beaks or nose or hoof or toes and nobody knows; we only guess and leave the rest because there's nothing left when juice is gone, and sticks are snapped like dry bone, crunching through time pools that once held honey, but now only hold useless money that can't even buy a song or a sandwich made of doubt and fear in between pieces of pie crust dough made of flakey hope and so...only a fragile shell to hold it all in, even though what we know is that in the buff we came, and in the buff we go, unless a single grab of fabric sewn is somehow slipped over us in our last minute of breath and sigh.  Why?  If nothing matters then neither do I.  Don't let it make you cry before you wait long enough to watch and see that I'll go with you and you with me, as when the white moth is on the wing -- anytime is fine; everything a dream inside a dream around a dream under a dream beside a dream on top of a dream.