5/30

In the warm plastic tunnels of our childhoods, static could strike at any moment—running doubled over in the smell of hot plastic and kids armpits, you can almost see the flash and always here the click of the shock—there are rumors of a toddler dying in here one 105 degree afternoon, the air too thick to inhale—in the odd colored light of the tunnels, it is easy to believe, and we choke on the possibilities we know will never happen to us—in the inferno of the Texas playground, we know everything is dangerous, everything will burn you, and we will rise again and again.