while traversing some distant, secluded network, we pass each other. "how's it goin' re?" i never salute first. "fuckin' lake wants me to smoke some fuckin'... lawn darts. dunno." i keep going. that night you wake up from a dream, remembering only a solid backdrop of pantone 7457U and two strangers arguing whether a singer is Louis Prima or Dean Martin. you knew the answer but they would not listen or hear. anyway you check your mail and there's a message from me dated two days from now, "oh yeah sry how's it goin with you"