i carry the world in my pocket like weekday change, a grocery list from two months ago washed anew by 2 or 3 laundry cycles. it doesnt weigh a thing. the birds feel it and circle me 3 times, singing their song of retreat. how sweet is this little life? what a fool i am to let myself drench in its weight when there is no need. i reach in my pocket, change dancing metalically, and i land a quarter. things are always going to work out.