The waves quietly pat the boat where the sheep jump the gates, the clouds float away, the squeegee mops away at the drowning noises of today’s hustle.

The buildings walk next to the roads in discourse about when they saw me, and invite a whole bunch of faces to their rave.

I reach out as they beckon, but there’s a clock wearing a silky tie, with the smaller side tugging on my wrist. The conversations turn into murmurs I want to hear, but

There I go, pulled to pixels, mouses (mice) and little squares taunting me, wishing to be poked at to make the DOW indices hop around.

Sorry guys, I have to pick the DOW

(c) Nyonglema