Hello Emily Dickinson, The tire iron spoke like the wheel it meant to remove. You have a way with language, going back to words and how they are words, most of the time. They are not tried and in control, they are spurs off the broken, lately, seems like, tracking westward with a rush. The tire speaks of wounded roads, people who are people in roads, and sometimes. The tire iron works in the background as the foreground. Emily, we get it. Our president select is a safe house for transportation models that encumber the old gravity. New gravity, the boundless fields of exploitable gone, redeems in fervid fashion. Assonance assists, like any sound in the dark or light. The situation turns into a situation, some place looks okay for now. We have waited for the least word, and got it. Emily, two butterflies disappeared.