The melting clocks inspired me as a child.
To do what?
I dont know.
I didnt even know your name at the time.
But that didnt remain a mystery.
You were a madman
born from an egg
dancing on a cliff
adjusting your intricately-waxed mustache
as if trying to help your face detect a better radio frequency.
I could never figure you out.
Your eccentricities, so enviable.
I rely on your sixteen-foot shirt for inspiration now.
But for what?
I still dont know.
A magnificent menswear kite, floating through air
like a wisp of an old memory.
A dream, perhaps?