Time was Money stopped with us upwards of a month once every year lording it large burning hard both ends. A daylight hoot by night the fridge shuddered supplements rustled and there Money always already was all palaver all sugary waffle. What memory prospers in grain it spends in pixels. You still happen on receipts secreted about the place like flutter slips or eggs at Easter. Cuckoospit, chlorophyll? Sure thing… Spring spells mostly those gorgeous residual jitters born of assessment of a self that used be pretty fiscal. This is of the carpet bag Money never returned for, a parallelogram of vivid dust through the screen door. This is of an heirloom bound in cloth Atlantic Calm. This is of a note unopened between shakers on the table that (till now) remained implicit. Don’t even dream about it.