their underlying wrath is cloaked in hair and tooth. their hair, oh. mostly, the boredom, a downward-pointing arrow flying unimaginatively straight. something shadowy in the bushes becomes something shadowy in the bushes. but a cooler is a chair, the floor is a bed, and PBR is still not an acquired taste. apples disappear in houses where no one is telling them to eat their vegetables. no one is telling them to eat their vegetables. the sun is loud; the sky, blue. they draw not on paper, but on one another. the neighbors are probably complaining. but then, a game in the sand, someone spinning. two someones lying on a catamaran. everyone lying and lying. oh, the cure to their epic boredom, their costumed wrath, will come soon enough. grow a tree, once you are through growing like one. the discovery of simplicity, words that merge in light, best in a shaded sort of sunlight. coolers are chairs; beds, floors. backs are canvases and apples best devoured to their core. there is a rabbit in the bushes, even when the grass plot is all rocks. the bugs will keep you up all night only if you let them. the song on the stereo isn't that good, but you can't skip the track of the morning birds. if you leave a can of beer in the beach sun, it won't tell you any secrets that you don't already know.