the voice like an old, persistent motor
was rattling on, never dying
and he was listening, listening, listening
and dreaming, dreaming, dreaming
the words
if they meant anything
he couldn't tell you what
he could tell you that if was hot
and stiff and stuffy
and the air was thick
and the walls were closing in
around him
the ceiling was falling down
on top of him
but he could see outside
the deep, dark sky
and the sharp, piercing stars
and feel the cool, night breeze
as it flew through the trees
running through the wet grass
that motor never dying behind him
sputtering
if there was a river rushing fast
with the full moon hanging low over it
he would jump in
and cause more than a ripple
less than a wave
and swim to the other side
and pull himself out
the water dripping off his skin
he might lie on the shore
and look up at the sky
see a fast falling star
and make a wish.