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We are in the kitchen splashing soul and martian spice into a gumbo, romping to some patchy dreamsong only half-remembered from the tail end of fizzled airwaves. Someone cracks a window and the six of us catch twigs of candy light between our eyes, catch fire on a dime and keep it spitting through the night with bellows of get by, get spry, don’t die, let’s ride, it’s fine, i swear, no lie, let’s fly, though nowhere fast and mostly for the rhymes.