In The Grip Of Something

In a quick thrust of dark peppermint, you opened me to the page in the thesaurus where the spine broke, spilling beautiful all over the rubber floor of freedom with wheels, which crunched over asphalt, mud and all sorts of shiny white floors that turned yellow with the smell of Jesus’ clothes and the soft corner of an eyelid into the soul, which, like a subordinate clause, cannot stand by itself.