i want to go away: and kiss the cusp of silver cities with pink lips that are not already stained with the ends of american spirits: i want to leave and caress the skies with hands that own no bruised nor bloodied knuckles from punching tauntingly blank walls: i want to taste the clouds: i want to smoke the atmosphere: i want to start thinking about how lovley it would be to hold the constellations in my grasp rather than barren wine bottles.