On on on the summit of Mt. Nothing by Alex Oxtrodinsky High up here in the gaze of the morning dawn tumbled softly, Californian, with only skim of Atlantic pugnacity her sailor salt breath calamitous sanity waves like these thoughts that won't stop coming back to me trampled and thrashed any stampeding memory. But here we are cradled, stopped up in reverie. I've patched up my wounds and cuffed up my sleeves. I've broken all my bread. The mountain would not come to Muhammad