Awaiting the rush means I must marinate in restlessness. I’m reminded that once a consciousness slides, it receives a static shock from the Playground Gods in order to bring it further from dreaming. I am an inattentive, distracted mother of birds, and I am starved of sweet sleep. Today I will decide if I would like to keep this position, or if I’d rather become caramelised with contradictive glossaries and a sticky sympathy for birds. How they don’t seem to be bothered by the mocking of mosquitoes is beyond me. Regardless, I can rarely stop thinking about aerodynamics, because if I wanted to catch the wind or doodle faces inside the clouds I probably could. But there’s something unappealing about swiping at the things that tease you. They will hold your spirit high and out of reach until you tire and lay to rest in a nest of polished flowers and dark, rotting coins. I’ll become collectible if I bake out here any longer. Or, at least that’s what my children told me.