You enter earth\'s pulpit garish and proud, son of yesterday. Thinking my bedroom is a rostrum for your picnics. A naked torso that could be folded and put into a little brown suitcase to carry away. The charioteer is the paparazzo for a radiant face. When I turn around I look to see a piece of Heaven for open hands. As the years went by and faces turned to statues the ink on the paper dried and smoke stuck to the flowery wallpaper.