I know where to find precious things. I'm certain the coast is clear. Stars come down like a swarm of bees, night after night. With eyes to the sun, stop staring at me. I've been waiting for this, driving into the sun. Coming around the corner into the light, I see your face. Driving around the city rings, staring at the shape of things, be careful. We get so strange, whistling tunes, dressing up in costumes, playing silly games. It's only water with a view of the trees blowing in the breeze—business as usual. I try and sleep at night, blow out a candle, the flame. The wind is dead. (Andrew Shields, #111Words, 9 July 2026, Peter Gabriel cento)