my child, the blistered cherry wood trees, the bastard son swaddled by corn mazes cut through with Daedalians flying saucer eyes squinting against an alimentary sun, i forgot your name when i saw your hands, maple leaves, speckled with twenty something shades of curry bought from an east indian gypsy that found comfort in our mundane existence only after replacing our bodies with paper dolls and posies(we are all animals anyway, patch-work of reptilian boots and fine leather)