OK, stormy remnant. Who brings milk to a star party? The astronomer takes his laser pointer and bends a wry flamenco across the dark. I'm at the end of my neck. I can't see one bean or jaunt of light. "I don't care." I don't think its wrong, but I can hold all of you except your eyes. Saturn may be a halo's paint; the long way to Venus is queued altogether wrong. This abrupt brisk feels citrus. Only the earth rounds under the different weathers. Hug me back, "You are here." There's no dot can accommodate such a stance.