No, I won’t slow down, you oaf— Keep up or I’ll leave you be. There, see that? The elders’ golden smiles and gray cataract eyes that whisper wisdom? You know the type. You see it, I know you do. Collect those colors as they desperately look for a new master. The dirt stinks, doesn’t it? Like Short breaths and shallow memories. That’s what you are, you know. Maybe you don’t yet. But you will. Watch me lick my lips. Yes, like that— Clockwise. I know the cycles of forlorn feet shuffling the dust caked on your legs, the same as my lips. You’ll take those memories that cling to your sandaled toes and calf hair, and they’ll rub across Your tatami mats, your bedroom.