I've been a wobbling sine wave, but always cross center. Always mostly understandable, predictable. Crackling and hissing, I lunge but always get pegged down. After all, hot asphalt feet always prefer the grass, even if it's scorched and unyielding. Still, the illusion of generosity is just that when it's recipients still sit dazed, wanting. Then, there comes a time to uncurl the messy piles of data and calculations. Use them to start a fire in the stove or make sense of the fading digits. Hundreds of times daily, I dream to find new sparks using four hands instead of two. I'm nothing if not ever hopeful for new eyes.