Cranberry sauce in my hair. Ketchup in her hair... Always. Another ketchup lover. Two years. Of her life, the only two. Two years, two feet, two eyes... Gratitude... Seventy five billion, little stars. A little star, that loves the moon. A canvas. Cranberry sauce, smeared across moon... Red and brown. Wooden statues stand parallel, hundereds. Motioning finger bones, grope inbeween them at a speed much beyond a humans physical limitations. Ump. Upper, bump, over clumps of clay... Grey Clay. The imprints if a wooden wheel.
Ripe strings rain songs in rainbow color. They hum, the world. We hum the rippling string sounds of this planet. Of course not singley the human race of animals. Green, but silver underwater, are not forgotten. During the production that is. Take what you will from it. I guess I can't say I know what I will.
The plush cheek baby, with ketchup in her hair, reaches to peirce the night's hush, the moon. She is clay, molded and molding. She is the music, the most ripe of strings. Sweetest pear. A cranberry amoung the stars. Painting with fruitful colors. Moon crumbs, crumble from space and I taste, the sweetness I find in her.
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