I don't want to stop believing in signs, but my imaginer suggests I should.
He says you show up in a rental car with poorly packaged flowers, not roses because you already know I despise those.
Not roses, because I am not like everybody else.
They are yellow, almost orange, but clearly genetically modified.
Most of the time I want to leave, destroy.
The hair is wrong, the sky is wrong, the boulders are wrong.
It is too hot and there are bugs flying the wrong way through the air.
As if they were sick from tropical disease
As if they knew I was doubting
Every single thing
Precisely before it occurs.