Out in the parking lot I rolled my car window up and out and down at the perfect angle, and twisted up my spine all spirals and cubes and spread out my fingers treacherous like a fragile little seahorse and then I could fit just so. It was a tight squeeze, but they offered up a steady hand to help me climb in.
They've got cities down here, bright and bold boxes in a seemingly-messy tightly packed megacomplex. They're tiny enough to fit down here and bless their heart for that. They don't wonder what's outside -- up where you're reading this -- because they're too busy vibrating and getting excited about possibility. They stack up the glass bits and the silver bits and then they climb up there and laugh at themselves until they pass out. They gather around water molecules and stack them up into snowflakes and go on pretend cruises and they all take turns because they know how to share. Sunlight tastes sweet to them.
And oh, they work so hard! When they have tasks to complete, they bring out their little metal drums and bang up a fury and then they all start swaying and soon enough they're all too excited and the tightly-packed crowd explodes out with enthusiasm in seventy-one different directions and they all bustle around doing what needs to be done and it goes by so quickly and then they're done and they all just laugh their shrill thumpy laughs until once again they drift away into the blackness, and they dream of fire and silk and new ideograms of mystery.
It's a constant symphony of clean honey and ozone down here. I may just stay down here with the molecules.