We are little gods and the sun of high paper is rolled and enjoyed in the haze of its own glow and all summers combine to an eternity range of high bliss low worry love love loss sand bitten kiss.
(we learned from the lack of death and the void is incomprehensible with so much music)
We perpetuate our joy by dividing ourselves to the immortal “smallest thing”, that one second between other seconds which meld because of the possible impossible youth.
Everything is easy. Everything is deserved. And best of all, not one thing matters. Everything matters. This is the privilege of unearned joy. It is presented from the divine to the divine and we little gods will grow old and break it. Until then, it is the best thing. It is summer in the yard. It is fireworks in a can. It is ice in the bucket. For the endless day, nothing is fleeting.
