About the facial tectonics. You should write. I am imagining the tender mask that would mold to straying baldness. It is white and elegant in guitar tones. The city circles laying a hill so weather doesn’t have to dance so hard. We can walk around it but it is not like a moat. I am told it’s nice so. And cars are like that. They tell the stories that no one else wants to hear. Only in the while bending wheels. You should hear it. Our houses are all in tattoos and brightness to rinse through. The wrinkles on a map shadow melting slow the tangle of night. Why little. About the body’s bread tearing crust. I should ride it in. To then allow the grasp of gleaming to open its elbows all the way. Where they shimmer. The city circles layering the walls. We are architecture. So gather courage in walking, the tales of road, the blinking, the skin.