Make your face straight.
There is confusion.
It is blurred and distorted.
Bring it back to normalcy.
The space craft is in the warehouse.
Suspended by chains.
Why are you smiling?
Blinding lights enter from the hangar opening.
What are you building here?
what am I supposed to understand or realize?
Am I supposed to build? Supposed to fix?
This warehouse is so broad and empty.
The light from outside makes it impossible to see the door.
Here in the warehouse everything has contrast!
It has a distinctive language my eyes can read.
I read everything by it's shadow, I read myself.
So what brought us here?
What are you working on?
Is this a private purgatory God afforded you?
You the straight shooter reduced to singular destinies.
My old idol.
My fantastic mentor.
My caregiver.
It is you isn't father grinning like a game.
Looking at that carcass of a machine on chains.
Tell me where are your tools?
You won't fix it with your smile alone.
Or are you waiting for me to do the job.
So come right out with it.
What do you feel you didn't achieve.
And how can I be of any service?
Yes I accept spiritual currency.
Do you need me to repair that old hunk of metal?
So you can speed up to heaven?
Use sign language if you can.
That light outside is already heaven.
How redundant it is to rebuild the ship,
when heaven is just outside the hangar door.
Or is this conclusion of your message,
purely meant for me.
Isn't that the comic aspect for psychic noise
It's not about anyone else, it's about you!
I cannot solve other's quandaries.
I grin my father's grin to think, I cannot even solve my own.
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