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To caine's previous piece
when i stopped remembering a ladybug stepped out of the air conditioner The voice over the radio hasnít changed in as long as I can remember. That bullhorn tongue: as loud as walls, as sure as Monday morning. A month from now the only thing weíll remember is ripping down that election sign for no reason. Gin and Everett playing in traffic, being chased through projects; five dudes with a half-sign looking to tell us what they stand for. We disappear into channels of ladybug air conditioners with sonic hourglasses. The voice over the radio hasnít changed in as long as I can remember. Ecstatic static, supportive as hepatitis blankets; the moment you step out of bed thereís no one around who thinks you matter. Nothing left to do but cuddle up with the viral fabric that taught you social graces, taught you the voice over the radio doesnít matter in cloistered rooms, where lady bugs step out of air conditioners with sonic hour glasses.
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