in the streets of this city I keep running into false summits dangling perfect snow white apples on a string of my consciousness. this morning I got up and I says to him, I says, Peter. Peter listen closely. if my checks don't clear I will be evicted. I says, I need a home, Pete. I know that you live in your shoes and I know that the red in your cheeks is not from over-eating but I still need to make ends meet. things aren't how they were. I don't dream of being a dust particle like the old days when the strongest of our walls were made out of sand. I can't be a pharaoh with you anymore. I says, I got responsibilities that need attending to. and I know when I breathe shallow it's your favorite, like hopping trains and dodging trains, smoking in alley ways and looking into the faces of other strangers. but you know I'm just a stranger. Pete, I says. my life's not over just because I have a calendar. does it make me a slave? somewhat, yeah, I told him. I told him straight because I never pegged myself as a liar. yeah Peter I'm a calendar closer to enslavement of my life. but I'll have you know that once I hit retirement, I'm gonna move to a commune in france and possibly never wear clothes again. would you join me if I did that, I asked him. that'd be the next summit, I says. the top one.