Fritz Lang's Metropolis was my dollhouse.
You inveterate passenger. Introverted
I hunger for this glistening obdurate
resistance in a buckle.
A catchment area.
The halo of indeterminacy, a rocky sensation,
a veil that shatters the night.
A desk, coal.
What light there is
compartmentalized by P's definitions.
Yet, I drink it anyways.