Flowery barges running down pale waters. The smell of beer and cigarettes and dirty leafy green. These are the days. Sheltering sky, painted by numbers, will you return? High wide and handsome, these are the days. Slam goes the screen, run through the kitchen. Empty the moon and fill it with fireflies, we all have dreams big as a bus wheel. These are the days. Fevery sleep, broken by thunder. These are the days. Peter Galvan