nothing is special.
not skydiving,
landing on the moon,
or the greatest romance of all time.
nothing is magic.
all slight of hand,
a card up the sleeve
or some camera tricks to make me think so what.
nothing is perfect.
always a smell,
a sound
or a dirty sock to fuck the whole thing up.
there is only the vision
and the dream.
in this
even the
plainest
oldest
shortest
loudest
little screaming lost soul
is the miracle.
the dream.
the world.
perfect.
magical.
we'll save special for the retards,
and laugh as they run.