That one when Pusha T trills until the 808 drops

Flat stones on the shore flipped across a tranquil surface and skipping so long as the friction is less than the momentum. Call that math.

Tangled concepts suffer from the opposite problem, as any effort to casually let them loose and sail off on an independent vector files at the outset. Is there more to be said? Always. Call that the law of conservation.

Go ahead and take first steps towards a trenchant narrative wanting to take you on that trip, a long tale that Mia judges or stumbles or gets caught up in the reverie of getting there and forgets the point is saying something here and now. That guy who said our moods do not believe in each other is moldering away. Also that idea of how God is the circumference of a circle whose expansion is a kind of molting process. He said that too.

Find me the committed man, the one who does not eventually see the symbolic shift away from radicalism as inevitable, who understands a totally unbelievable fixed rate mortgage to be a kind of quietest trophy to assimilated complacency, and I will pay for your breakfast.

Find me a payphone. That is where the ideas needed to combat this slick limpid casting call will simmer. That is where this ethereal stone, walking on water, will come to bloom. A place that still makes it possible to plug a quarter into a slot and find someone out there with answers, or at least a voice that can respond to questions, perhaps in the same bewildered tone as they are haltingly uttered.