Says the man in his golden suit. Or was The Golden Suit his brand? Metal letter pressed through, a starry sign that blazes through the day and flickers wickedly at night. Dreams are for weekends, you said– cascading over white rocks into water sounds, crashing again and again. How I wish to pass every home and building, knowing who left and who survives them, to see the speed, the torque, the direction of our meshing gears transmitting rotational motion. More than that, I wish to drive.