"I'd turn my collar up on this southeastern sun, I'f only I were twice as brave" -and so lately i've been hearing a story, about a boy, laying betwixt two window panes, in some trivial hotel room, south of charleston. and his view outside, is better than the one in, so you can spare the debate. and with an unfamiliar pillow pressed hard into his lap, he stares intrigued into the mirror that's been presented in front of him, and questions the white walls surrounding him. "do they resemble heaven, denali, or was it vilnius?" he asks. and with that those walls waned, and faded a darker hue. and he tells himself "i'm better than this exotic hotel room. i've seen better artwork in richmond, i've seen better views in stowe, i've seen...," and he blames the decay of the spanish moss solely upon the rising temperatures in the early-july sun. all the while, the red, plastic flowers on the dresser top, melt sugar, and filter over the cast iron, in the warmth of yet another sweet southern summer. and next to his much traveled bed, the window sings "i've seen so many come and go, but you, by far, are the saddest wretch of them all," while outside the fountain whispers in response, "don't worry son. i too am just another pawn, another victim, another whore of this vile, yet necromantic world." and its' waters elope from her pacific fingers, and break for shore. for do they deserve to fall short? and so he scibbles "how does this reflect upon my life on a daily basis, when the world will just keep spinning, and my eyes will just keep cowering?" and oh, how he longs to take the interstate back home, back to those new england summers, the shores at bethany, and the quaintness of september in binghamton, before the leaves can go dry. and so the alarm clock waltzes to seven, as the sun suffocates west to pinckney island, labeling it another "manifest destiny", while the palmetto trees sway with each and every chord. and across foreign bed sheets, in syllables and linguistics, the words "can you feel the jazz?" are spilled like past lovers entangled within olive branches. and so he confesses, "well, i use to be able to, but now things just don't look as enticing as they once did. i tend to favor the arctic to the atlantic, the open door to the open window, and those amusement parks do nothing but tire me out now. but i remember when i could feel "it" though, oh those were glorious times.'' but they are all nothing but footnotes now, from a bygone era when he'd lay in her bed, surrounded by lavender walls, and lush lines. and he'd know that he was safe within her locket. the one proudly hung around her neck, not the one shrouded under some forgotten literature in a dresser drawer or chest, only to be lost within the decades' mane. and so with his back to the head-board he inscripts "sunrises were always were more radiant than sunsets, yet i've never been awake to witness one lately. yet, i remember those grand times, and i believe i am finally sufficent with them now. yes. i do believe they are petals upon a blackened tulip, not just some photographs from an october, two years gone by. and oh, those were the times when she'd sing softly, and i'd accompany out of tune, 'linolium floors, linolium floors, oh how we love these linolium floors...'