Dear United Nations and Plaza, dear young days and darkness in the air.

For all plain speech gets us, dual multiverses judge us / them / anyhow — 
each with our own shoes, lucent gray
with a pebble inside, each unrestrained, given away by the ambush
the one day of all days 
for others in either multiverse, which looks impressive now. 
P.S. The seasons like before are morally exigent, shivering in a synthetic valence, coming back, never.