Painting. Squishy messy throw the tube down in the grass without it's lid and not care. Use 57 different brushes and stick to them - stick to everything. One small spot of thalo blue spreads like a fungus from handle, sleeve, arm, face, skirt, furniture, glasses. Uncomfortable fingers and endangered clothes, hunger, stubbed toes and sunburnt arms, fruit flies sticking to the surface and dying like it were the LaBrea Tar Pits. Small oak balls pop and cover the surface, the wind takes it down and nearly punctures it on a corner of some garden furniture. The taggers miss it 3 nights in the front yard. It goes 50 on the top of my car, still wet - fibrillating as the brand new mercedes tails me impatiently.
But...but...what does that/this have to do with anything?
You. Me. You. Me. You. Me.
Them. Another other. Another one of the many.
With chocolate sauce and a little whipped cream and no nuts. Your concoctions are spectacular.
On your trips back and forth between them there you are...wildless and reckless and full of audacity and pleasure behind the steely doors of your little craft...traversing their bodies in your own way.
Take that rocket ship somewhere good.
That's part of the story.