I am an agent of chaos...

I can't pick up a pen tonight. They're all too heavy, too empty, too careless. On my way back to my dorm after class the dry, browned green crisped below the rubber soles of my sneakers, below my rubber soul. And the breath of night whispered to my rouging skin. And I wish I had someone to ask to stop holding my hand in this heat. And everything about the weather makes me wish my bike had life. And everything about the weather makes me wish I wasn't so cold.

I want sweet tea in the cool grass with cargo shorts and bare feet. I want gravel roads and empty fields and ditches. I want pavement and black sky and crickets. I want the empty sounds of night, the deafening silence. I want to stand in the middle of the street, face to the sun, and greet the fairness of chaos.

And something, everything, in this 60 degree open-air palace makes me want you, too. Will you take my palm and let ours sweat together as we step over cracked sidewalk and dirt? Will you sit near me on chipped, steel benches, sipping coffee, mostly black, as the men and women pass in their business suits? Will you listen as Neil Young floats out of my windows and down the highway as we head nowhere? Will you give this season meaning?