A walking rain forest of ridiculous, like umbrellas when it snows with no real reason why they shouldn't exist except that it rains more often. Even more often, there is sunshine, even when there's moonshine as it's second-hand, reflected off the sands with no real footprints, one or two maybe but mostly just doubt because of wind where there is no sound and studio lights switching angles in the background. I look at the crowds closing in, their faces turned, their steps backward, melting into forward only when the noise streams back so suddenly we forget ourselves for a moment, forget to be afraid of reflecting a whole like a handful of sand where you don't realize that one is black and one is clear and twelve are a sort of brownish-red, like the paint we made from mud and handprinted quite dramatically onto each others' arms and chests, not remembering that it's six short minutes until we're called in to garlic bread warm on the table and an untouched bar of soap. Glancing back, I see things I've never noticed before, tucked behind the trees, smoke rising like fog falling like it's too heavy, so heavy it thinks it's larger than the mountains, the deserts, the sky, only unsure of its original size and exactly when all the edges blended into each other, tapping my fingers against an unknown desk, closed umbrella on the floor beside me, convinced of my own bad luck so I might as well break the glass back into beaches, convince my paper it's solid enough to be wood or skin or something substantial, not like my idea to build the world's largest swing or really learn to verbalize my thoughts, the ones in my peripheral mind especially because that is why I'm most curious, seeing their colors because my nerves fill in the spaces I couldn't fill otherwise, like laying out my memories in sketches instead of photographs, writing myself notes I won't be able to decipher so I'll have to carry them forever to convince my pocket it's not lonely. Over and over, these rocks, this sand, new notes, and then the rain comes.