if the smell of tomatoes didn’t make your heart sting, then your smile would be broken into tiny pillars of sadness. one night more and the days would be golden like the moon’s limelight. purple apples don’t exist, but i imagine that if they did, there would be 16 children who’d call for them to play songs on their violins. slow. fast. mid-tempo. all of that. and more. because once the festivities end, only you will know where to go from there. only you will know when the time is right to pull the shades over your blindfold coverers, and you will see that now is the time to eat your words. the words which come from your mouth. if tears filled the nile river, the egyptians may have not died in flames, along with the pilgrims. these days, miracles happen day by day and makers of the sun will bring salad to the homeless babies, but that is why the sun is actually solid and not full of gas like the mother fuckers in iceland might tell you. what do they know? nothing. that’s right. so fuck the midnight moon and welcome to a whole new day of violent raviolis. i spit on the man that tells me no….