Why are the clothes in my wardrobe so like costumes? Pink and sequined and floppy-armed or torn?
Why must every fall begin with boxes?
Why does the internet radio play only opera?
Why is the route faceted like a diamond, going to the Midwest and East Coast and back, and California, you are there at the end like a long straight arm holding a slingshot, sending me straight.
I always wanted to join the circus. I suppose unknowingly along the way I did.
This time I would like the walls of my trailer painted orange, please, and silver stars on the ceiling, and rounded barware that rolls like in the movie When Night is Falling. I would like a dressing room with real walls, not just tent, and a drum that purrs upon my entrance, and to wear silver tights with pointed toes and an unmatching high collared cape. Most of all, I would like to take the bicycle racer with me, and the mathematician, and the bard.
There is room on the grill of the truck for his tires. He will sit in the front and stare at the map, the tip of his finger silent as a star. If he tells us the way, can he stay? Please can he stay?
These are my conditions. If you agree, you may send an owl to my window with a fountain pen, and I will sign.