Glass-Handed Kites in my ears.
Commencing the relaxing. Commencing the breathing.
Let go. Let go. Sometimes, I just must let go.
I am not proficient in the art of letting go.
[Control freak core, my magma is. Pardon it.]

I don't have much time left to soak up this jumble of small-town-meets-big-city; breathe in deeply. Commencing the exuding of good vibes, friendlies, and such. Bask in love. Bathe in it. Scrub with it. Brush my teeth with all this fucking love. Denny's. None of them there; drink much coffee and smoke many cigs.

Seeing the positivity in hard-work-meets-lack-of-control, in Mew and menthol. Ending the seeing of self as own puppet; cut the strings fuckfuckfuck. Move at will. Walk at will. Talk at will. Strut your shit at will.
Regain control by losing it, paradoxical for sure. Certain, for sure.
Learn when to open closed things; i.e. heart&mouth&mind.
Learn when to close opened things; i.e. heart&mouth&mind.
Radio must tune all three into perfect united frequency.
Cease the cacophony in their clashing;
makes the ears ache and the pillow less soft.

I have dues to pay and storms to weather to earn my sunshine.
Must let the clouds do as they will. Can't dismiss the clouds.
They're free-spirited and dance and rainrainrain at will.
[Bring an umbrella.]