In a spasm of creative action. I remember. The smell of fresh mozzarella. And a ray of freedom. I’ll take it. A cloud. Because a cloud. Is better. Than no idea. The words stick. We’re born, we die. We get up. We put on new clothes. Spring comes and takes them away. Summer comes and lays them down. Put your money in my hand. I'll chop off your hair. Put it in my pocket. Tie it up with gold threads. Please forgive me if I stare at you. Tomorrow brings another day. Another letter. We try again