We're trying. The smoke is clearing, then congealing. The structure is crumbling. I am trying to paint a picture while standing on platforms that are falling and shifting. My brushes tumble. Paint disobeys. Retaliation is futile. The enemy is imaginary. We are trying. We run. We pick up speed. But the flower ladies are drunk and the book advisors can't read. I keep finding myself on this same street. I keep forgetting where I was going. There are too many places to see. My bucket list is on fire, and I'm trying to do everything at once. And something is burning. It pesters our noses. It festers in our houses. It makes contracts with our social networks. We are trying the best that we can. But the clocks keep shifting. Nobody knows what time it is. We are trying. We really are. But the oceans are swallowing our lands. Corporations are creating ointments for our hands. And all our art has turned to sand.