what i pictured. nothing but a cell of atoms and eves. stuck bouncing from one side of the room to the next. trapped, not yet seeing imagination as the escape from the dream one thinks is imagination. each one listening to another car's radio while theirs is currently broken. dead beat poets on the street out looking for treats mainly when tricks were always the coolest. ghosts in the shape of them, dancing in rooms alone as perfect strangers, waiting to be found... knowing well that love and affection are the only warmth one ever needs, not even food or sleep can beat that. these shadow people finally see a dog is chained to his master they call god. a dog is chained to himself really, watching as humans collect themselves and untangle the mess they created. - frank/einstein poem