En route to Vancouver i let the sunrise chase me. Come to think of it, you could be that way. You are a plane ride where the back wheels remain perpetually grounded. Sometimes you are the red scar across the sky, sometimes the one-eyed vision of almost and i keep worrying i'll over-fly, i'll just wake up and wave goodbye to Juan de Fuca Straight and that beyond the ocean is only the sky because gravity fails occasionally. Did i laugh all that out of you? The clouds are a continual shelf involved in a desperate attempt to cover up what we've done wrong. But i saw the mountain folds where they peeked and i was breifly numb of the manner in which land abused land land bruised land what it is, though, must be different. All of history- physical, whimsical owned or public is an adjustment- and i want to compete with you to peak the highest paradigm shift.