flashes of a wildcat pack.

Ossifer! I swear my mustache is real and no, I'm not wearing my cat sweater ironically.
It's just that I hear Sisyphus has a millisecond of triumph before his boulder comes tumbling--
I hear that magic-dust makes hair grow quickly; mine'll be long again soon. And Ossifer! I swear to drunk that time is a sing-song, that my manic ramblings are sing-songs. And mid-winter, warm-air, misting is a sing-song, like the kale I sautéd on my stove-top. Bandit! Throw on your spectacles 'cause it's a damn good day. Let your hair grow long with mine. We can memorize each other's favorites (first we can pretend we actually have favorites), and flash--
we can pretend we know each other, and flash--
we can wear mustache guises, and, Oh!
Our Manifesto of subversion.
We're just a wildcat pack. Too wild for our own goods. Too 'fraid to truly be lone.
(or maybe too wise) and flash--
togetherness is kinda beautiful, huh?