to go, and to come back, and feel home in all the tips of the world that matter; i don't want to say grateful, but days are full of great gestures, maybe it's finally time for heroes, the ones to wear shiny capes and spit in each other's faces. the wide open sea lies next to me as i roam around this tiny bed of visions on a little paper boat, twelve rude boys on the oars, ready to stir, and the wind spits back at me too, into my tired and dirty eyes just before they close to hang back into their space of flickering sunlight.