When I sit in this grass I do it like a robot never could. First you must understand the grass. For all our intentions it is quite tall, nearly taller than me while I'm sitting unlike robots. But in reality the grass is tiny, and constatly reminded of as much by the rumpus-loving sky that twists itself, blushing, into a blue dress everytime I come to watch it set. There is some insanity in the soil. But not actually dimented minds, no, its the kind of insanity that is bound up in a golden straight jacket in the highest room of the prettiest house on the block and told again and again its crazy for wanting to chase the most-unfashionable earth tones out the window. Its the kind of insanity you could really make friends out of, in such a way robots could never attempt. When I sit in the grass, its the only time I'm like a Jedi. I press my palms to the soil as I watch the sky twisting, changing into her evening dress, and I will the buckles to straight shatter on those jackets. I'm hoping all the recluses in all the houses of all the neighborhoods whose souls are buried in that crazy fucking soil would dig their way out from the dirt, in a way robots can't but in a way one might imagine zombies to, and sit with me and press their palms to the dirt. Robots can sit motionless, buried in the dirt in their gold and metal and white cloth jackets. And ours is the crazier state? There is some insanity in the soil, I can feel it in my palms.