6 a.m. is a beautiful time.
The perfect mirrored lake, the reflection of the skies and trees, suspending the visual in infinity.
The fog hangs as the trapeze artist.
The insects rub their weary eyes and traffic to their routine.
"That was only four!"
Clean air Chicago residents wouldn't believe.
Clean air we don't even believe.
"You have to make the rock hit parallel, like this."
We are the fish who don't have to worry about the fisherman
(When you throw a lot of rocks, it sounds like machine-gun fire, HOORAH)