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A LETTER TO BRITISH AEROSPACE You were the grand directio more than a scuffle would surely grasp this, throughout see the weeklight come to zero raise your hand now and then even, and not how grasped but how ungrasped it may itself seem is the startup delusion. Even-handed I see this, the screw-up pallor off which snap trashy no-hope codes you snap up at the first commission to sigh, hope too can be excellent. Though the earth may on the daily skids tilt as usual at nothing nothing wraps up peace with a grosser ribbon of pangs than this, that the question should so slightly run so coarse an errand, only between hope-code and no-hope, itself smoothed and made you will it run out or, not and well who cares. When in New York I ran inside, when unbusy I aspirin too much and just run out the coked-up garment district wow myself blaze-boy could chewed up lights spat stars out. To my heart streets to nowhere together saw that slid in and the sky was thin and everywhere magnificent, thin faces acheless I went blurry, you are the bar-zero you eat everything and later it's dark. As if it were dark, how could it ever be so, a light lunch and the grin slots back. They're not all like this, I alone was the one so tremendous. Elsewhere hope runs what a quiet person may call its quiet course; tottering round their igloo, now tending the rise of an adequate fire things we used to call esquimaux whistle. I love you, this is a voice from zero-bar. The codes bright, various you may run among, this includes the fabulous sky over and the sky made by metal rains a running outtake, and her bright yellow sun and cerulean stuffed with crab apples and birdsong served up as dessert. Were justice a code also. And whatever night may mean, for sure it can't be the other menu item. I wish you could sleep by my side, literally all of you. Then we might wake up at the same time, we bold and each leaping out from a doze degraded now to habit, with fistfuls of rubber laurel. Shrimp run through the Pacific. What is the time now hope-rated, could run off a sparky derision true and fireless everywhere washes the sky back to us, the sky you hope on which to put your foot down. %%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%