Cut and dry shadow in the corner of your eye, you think you see me but you're wrong. You blink. Wrong again, always wrong, just like me. Les enfants ne connaissent pas se qu'ils font. The children don't know what they're doing. Playing games on dirty sidewalks.

It's past your bedtime. Just when we think we're free we catch ourselves again and turn out the lights but insomnia hits and we're trapped. Safe again, confined to a little cushy room with squishy animals and pillows and not enough time and not enough places to go where we can be alone.

And I think to myself that I might like to go out and play for a while after the sun goes down. But the sun doesn't go down. It doesn't feel like it today. Now it feels liberated. It might never go back down again. So I guess I'll have to stay inside and play.

Not much to play with here, but a carpet, a couch, and a dusty old rotary telephone. So I call you. Rings once, twice, you pick up... I gasp. You think you recognize my breathing patterns but I hang up before you can be sure. So as far as anyone's concerned you were mistaken again - confused by the trapeze players I sent to your house to danse on the trees that you can never cut down because they're technically not on your property.

The thought of it all makes me laugh and look down at my toes. They look like wings. "I could fly to your house," I think "If only it weren't so bright out." Too bright to even see your own shadow through the glare. Too bright to catch more than a glimpse of someone else's.