A pile.

Crystal, clear polythelene. Simple-minded, bright colored coat, and Paris in the springtime. You may not love anyone as much as you love this sky, dotted with incandescence and self-loathing, it is wrapped around you like a warm scarf and a ticket to somewhere you read about in books. I hate watching everyone make sacrifices to every day goals. Giving up a good tumbler of exploration for a shot glass of degradation and a good conditioner. I wonder about the yellow cars that drove by weeks ago, with the skinny arms of a child hanging out of the passenger window. His arms glided up to the slopes of his young shoulders, and there was no neck or mandible, but only his eyes, looking out my neighborhood as if it were an island in the midst of a sea he could not swim out of. But it was all hope and and signals of what childhood is made of: losing, gaining, and correcting other people's mistakes. And avoiding traps, bear steel ones that older generations set, with candy inside. The whole purpose of winning is to be heads and shoulders above everyone else.
But not you. That yellow car child, the one that helped to remind me of a why I hate the simple minded, and say a prayer of thanks to the floor under my feet that I have grown without injury to mind or spirit - well ,that yellow car child isn't like you. You are crystal, clear polythelene. Wrapped around yourself, letting only tainted air go in and mix up your mind like a cocktail of cyanide and spoiled orange juice. Highly acidic and detrimental to whatever self discovery you may be making. Are you looking for a cave with treasure in it? A wooden sphere containing your jackpot, the keys that will unlock all of the doors with no numbers, no directions on them. Why not make your own keys? They are not just hard as iron, or as fine and delicate as a young girl's cornflower hair. Drink down the bitterness of growing older without a map, and without a mask, or all of those other first-aid, lifesavers so many count on to make it through a lifetime.
Happy Gold, the kind that you wear around your limbs, the material weight that adds to you. Get yourself into irreversible predicaments. Play in the coffins of others dreams and goals. It isn't as difficult as it may seem to play mean and vengeful. But besides all of the things I tell you to do, I have to wonder if there is even a plan laid out for you. On a cardboard bulletin board somewhere in a hidden room behind a rigged bookcase. Where your fortune is being told by old brujas who see the dead and predict hurricanes. Lay out your outfit for tomorrow. This is going to be the outfit you lose your serenity in. You pause to think about the blue jeans you lost your virginity in, even though they laid as a pile on the floor, and you watched them collect dust as he took his time turning you into a 'real' woman. But there are no real women. They are like imaginary skyscrapers, tickling God's belly like parasites, reminding him to quiet them down, keeping them in their places. So, lay out your outfit for tomorrow. If you open your palms and say a wish that something will come along tomorrow to disrupt your plans, whatever crystal clear polythelene plans you may have. Along the storm drains that dump out in to tsunamis in the Indian Ocean, maybe there will be a rock as solid as a dead man's plan for reincarnation that will trip you. Trip and fall. Lose your serenity. But keep your jeans on this time.