Outside my window, there is a storm of plywood. So much plywood when the temperature is rising. Usually, when things decline it storms Moretti magic. Winter storms are the oddest. Swords and boxes. Plates breaking everywhere. I fall on a banana peel more often than on anything else. It cradles me. Won’t hit the flooring. Usually, when things decline it storms toxic masculinity. I catch as much as I can take home to my clothes. I have claim. It all evaporated from me. Sky soaked it up when I was sweating out near the plywood. Today, I am in bed. Three necklaces tangling under my freshly dark hair. It is nearly 7 P.M. Outside my window, the sun is rising when it isn’t. The sun has a face. Winks above sunglasses. The sun looked Moretti in the eye. Top down. A man a foot taller than you. Said you know this. I hate that man’s style. Enough danger in bed today. I don’t want to watch you shoot and stab on stage. What does your mother think? How do you get past it? When things decline for Moretti, it storms plywood. It storms building-inspiration. In warmer temperatures, it storms predetermination. Psychic callings. Feeding delusions. He and I know a lot about that. I want to grab a beer with that guy, the tall one on the sky top. Invite Moretti to it too. Why not? I am just feeding illusions everywhere also. I want to go home and soak in the masculinity with magicians. Laugh it off. Usually, the banana peel fall happens on purpose. Sometimes on stage. I am making this all up. Especially when I do it alone.