I want to write about how when the balance shifts, it tilts everything to the extreme, like some pinball game gone rabid, how when I sit and daydream, my pen sprouts Warholian wings and flies away to the moon on cow wallpaper and side-by-side images of Coca-Cola bottles. I want to write about how the park I used to steal away to when I was a kid, crossing trails and railroad tracks (always "to the tracks!) to steal the flattest stones from its creek bed and skip two, three, four times in a row, the dance made mad ripples in the rush, now stagnant, standing unmovable until the next tornado season, bringing along its heavy rains just perfect for flooding the adjoining tennis courts the city just replaced in time for spring. I want to write about all this but tonight the total wreck of imagination is nonexistant.