Countdown to madness… 3, 2, 1… And then what? We drunkenly drove on the sidewalk of our dreams, running over all pedestrian thoughts and cycling sensibilities. It was raw dreaming only, built for speed and power. Changing the world more often than we changed our underpants. I tried to jump over the creek but I just waded through it. We skated on the thin ice but never fell through the cracks. I grabbed her hand and she slipped through my fingers. I grabbed her hand and she slipped under the covers, caressing my tender carnalities, and we knew each other biblically, along with a few other religious tomes. I thought about jumping, I envisioned jumping, I witnessed others jumping, but at the moment of truth or consequences or lies I just waded through it. Our love was too tired to exercise, so we let it rest and recover. Our bed was too tired to sleep on. Our shoes were too barefoot to walk in. Our clothes were too naked to wear. We danced to a thousand tiny waveforms arranged just so, to create the exact moment we were listening to and crashing to and colliding to and rhythmically hypnotizing each other to. I took a step, then broke into a run, but I didn’t jump over – I just kept taking steps. This baring of souls and emotions was a fundraiser for the downtrodden and apathetic. This passion spoke with an accent to amuse us both, with sarcasm and humor to make us laugh, with our collective consciousness to drive guidelines and ziplines and expectations and amalgamations. This bear growled in somebody else’s woods, not ours, because hibernation was an impossibility with all the light and heat and fire limning our very skin with red/orange/yellow hues. I put my hand on the small of her back and my other hand in the fireplace, filling her with smoke and smiles and myself. I just kept walking until I reached the other bank, and stepped up out of the creek, shoes and cuffs soaking wet. Though neither of us were believers, we both made a valiant and involuntary attempt to summon gods, by screaming names, not just by lighting candles. She waived the cover and just let me right in, allowing me to invade her privacy. I turned her pages and read all her secrets, running my fingers along the words eagerly, and pausing to savor her juicy intimate details. I didn’t feel the wetness for a while, but it froze rather than dried, because it was February. We soberly pulled the car back onto Easy Street, a two-lane highway, and believe me, we drove both ways. We went up and down that road all night, until we crashed into dawn and fell asleep in the back seat. It was sweet dreaming only, built for warmth and comfort. The aftermath of our non-conflict was a wet floor sign.