It is easy to remember palm trees flying past in the dark of night, but not what they looked like. Their fingers must have reached to us, grasping for a chance to be mobile, on the move, like we always were. “They” is a better word, since most of my time passed by within the confines of a pair of ear-sized speakers. My memories are holograms. I disagree with the myth. I wanted to combust. I still disagree with the myth. I opened Pandora’s box for hours on end each night, allowing sonic truths to float through my brain, while palm trees raced after my friends. I often dreamed of a stage lit with pillars of fire and light-beams of heavenly strength shining upon me. I could never see the rest of the band in my holograms. The palm trees continued to grasp for a chance at movement; they waved gently outside my window, beyond the worn pane of glass and the checkerboard of the screen, begging me to include them in my dreams of fame and fire. I imagined myself sitting upon a miniature throne in the back seat of a metal carriage, while each of my advisers commented on the oppressiveness of the night air. I imagined myself seeping through the cracks in the hardwood floor – like bad concrete with weak aggregate – of my bedroom, taking Pandora’s box with me, and delivering bits of truth to the curved fingers of each tree while sliding through chlorophyll-saturated veins. I have been reaching for them ever since, trying to find the truth in the myth of adolescence.

A landscape exists within me. My heart is a cloud that rains upon the soil. It spills its bitter precipitation with little regard for the flooding that may occur. I have no levies to stop the torrent. I have built no dams. I have little choice but to accept the maelstrom obliterating my landscape. My heart is a bleeding one. The livestock of my life are bombarded by blasts of wind. Every last drop of my sanity is shed as the pain becomes a welcome relief from reality. To realize that one is simply a mouse is to understand the nature of prey. She coils and twists around me as a boa constrictor annihilates its prey. I am the mouse in the grip of the boa, only able to observe and experience my total and utter destruction at the hands of my coiled emotions. Tighter, ever tighter I am squeezed. She is the coiled boa. I am but a small rodent in her grasp. I feel her grip tighten, even as she draws away from me. She is the coiled boa. I am but a small rodent in her grasp. The wind leaves my lungs and spills across the land before me. I fill the rugged, bitter soil with my pain. I caress the sinister blades of grass with my despair. My wind is being lost, and my song with it. She is the coiled boa. I am but a small rodent in her grasp. I will share my song with the landscape of my soul. I will break what little is left of myself, now that she is gone. I will gather the shards of my integrity, and I will construct the strongest levies, dams, walls, barricades, barriers, and floodgates that my inner world has ever known. I will stand the test of time, as my Great Wall glares across this vista. It is a pristine, emotionless vista. The livestock roam free, the gentle breeze jostles the branches of the trees, the fields sweep across the horizon in never-ending emerald. She is the coiled boa. I am but a small rodent in her grasp. As she slithers away from me, I catch one last glimpse of the beauty that once was. My pain has been spent, otherwise I would feel the bitter sting of regret that comes with knowing guilt. My fertile vista transforms instantly, and I am left with a barren wasteland. I see one small weed growing between two sandy boulders as my ragged, shallow breaths threaten to peter out. It seems that I am not so appetizing to her after all. She was the coiled boa. I was but a small rodent in her grasp. The weed occasionally shakes in the wind, my breath, my pain, my guilt ― my hope grows between two sandy boulders, as my breaths remain labored. My hope will stand guarded by the walls of my shattered heart reconstructed. My hope will stand feebly in the wake of a maelstrom. My hope will not be crushed by the grip of a boa. My hope will overthrow my pain.

Plank-deck hobby sparkling relentless, you ride – a silhouette against the grey, a pirouette of flippancy amongst the greens, an accent on the acuity of yellow sun-rays. Follow the cement circuit; breaker of wind, of timeless continuity you are. Step off hard, the seashell-aggregate will push back, propelling the plank forward into this keen contrast. Vibration of the wheels over rough pavement will stall the movement of oiled bearings. Get them, the hallowed blank spaces that emerge from the textures of the clouds. Alight, and chase the spectres which burn relentlessly in the hearts of the crows, spraying music into the branches. Climb toward epiphany, future son and do not fear the crows, for the notes will strike the strings – not the other way around. The bend approaches, feint slightly, lean into the embrace of gravity, and remember your gewgaw-ish frictional quality which spurs all men and women against you willingly; do not alight lightly. The epic awaits you, future son; one day you will know why crows remain in the branches, why they seldom speak unless threatened or mating, and why the wheels beneath you will never stop burning track-marks into the concrete. One day you will know all this, should you choose to accept it, and you will then be a friend to the music inside you.

Detritus devolving, concrete infinity, burn through the artifice. Find nothing that can stop the onslaught of the laser that bores into ice, shattering the consciousness of the elite in one fell swoop. Standing is more work than infinity would ever admit, especially on the feet of silence. Muse-speaker, cite an artificial blank and ride onward into the swooping ice-fall. Grasping for inkwells, the palm leaves slip on puddles of beaming sunlight. Sing onto a ballpoint until all can be found within the flattened carcass of an idea. Burn through the artifice. Standing on infinity works if silence allows infinity to speak. Beyond-traveler, hold the hands of the cube of ice which melts in puddles of the heat. Empty glasses seem to sparkle relentlessly in the corners of the concrete. Where shall the poles retreat to in the dead of wintry elitism? Devolve the fraud, and walk on further toward the golden Ice Age which will appear at the edge of the music.