It's the same window honey, and we can't get outta' this place it seems.  When did it come to where I lost the exclamation points of my blood my veins my bones my nerve?  The winds are tearing the bricks off the century-old skyscrapers!  We are the industrial smoke disappearing into the moon!  We are the cameras and the micro-chips!  We are the flesh and bone looking for colonies on the moon!  We are the hungry expansion sliding to 2030 with all the patience of a loaded gun.  Run. Run. Run. Run, run run running from the womb.  Cryogenics, ha!  Cancer, anybody's god, a plane crash still chop you down.  Run, run, run and try to catch it with a leap as your chin tumbles to the ground.  I wish it were simple love: the baton or the ground.  The baton is the flail of the limbs.  The dreams.  The whispering Niagra Falls!  I calm down.  I smell the quiet Chicago night.  The stillness of a city where the myths of bank robbers and bootleggers and bluesmen and murderers and presidents do not often scamper about the internet age with more weight than that of light.   I walk along the unsold apartments and splash of fresh water.  I walk with the ghost of Europe in my pocket, thankful and unsated.