Everone will offer you a poem about the stars.
It's our version of breakfast on the Titanic,
a luxurious necessity when we don't feel doomed but we are. If I had to guess, I'd say we don't believe in the present.
All our problems will be solved by some other self,
the future version of ourselves....

Diane, I’m holding in my hand a small box of chocolate bunnies.
Excuse me, is there something wrong, young pretty girl?
It’s not the first time, it won’t be the last, but I’m in that doghouse again.
Your milk is gonna get cool…

Excuse me, is there something wrong, young pretty girl?
They found…