Neither hand giving up, beat red, soaring through the air, wind whistling between the tiny slits of space between each digit.  Muscles tense like rubber bands snapped into motion setting sore appendages on a crash course of raised skin.  The sonic boom of pressure waves emits and crashes through the cavernous opening like a freshly plucked string bass as it swats and buzzes past my ear.  Finding and kissing each last crevice of space as it careens into the could of appreciation.  Dignity, dreams, and addiction live here in unison.  A craving that pumps the vanity through our veins.  The organic original drug of choice, more powerful than a thousand bristled comets busting through the roof of your house.  Pull out the net, capture the butterflies twinkling like dew drops hanging like stars in the room in mid July at 2am.  Beauty and order are restored on their shelves to be sifted through on those thick rainy days.