The Crossing-Stream

Far to the bleating gone is the crossing-stream of endless strifes and fifes mixed with music along the banks of a river lost behind the stars but in exactly the place it needs to be for explorers other than you to find and redirect from the shouting, mad gazes of the mostly-population with all of their shopping and teeth. I own square-acreage on Jupiter, I think. In the eye of the storm, which can fit something like a thousand earths, so, you know, that’s a lot of backyards in which to play, even if you can’t see the sun and the wind is blowing at ten thousand miles an hour. It’s still all about the little things. Be grateful for what you have.