A thin man takes off a diamond-paved mask.
Another releases a white horse in an empty palace.
A man slumps against a lit, street-level window.
He goes on to levitate above a roof ledge, then settles back to safety.
Ah — there’s a woman in this one, behind the wheel of a muscle car.
A painting of the same woman, blindfolded and bound, is resting on an easel.
You see the oddest, fanciest people at an Old West wedding.
You see them again at a funeral on the day after the wedding.
A downcast man sits on a roof ledge with another downcast man.
A woman strokes another man’s hair; someone here might be an angel.
Those shoes, that hair, that coat, that long walk in a desert without dust.
That hatchet, that payphone, that Jeep, that briefcase paved in diamonds, full of water balloons.
And now more Jeeps, more muscle cars, more deserts and angelic nights and grand clothes.
There is an obvious way to end the endless but I’m afraid of what world I’ll find if I turn this off.
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