Do creative thoughts rain from temporal powers outside ourselves?

The coupling of confusion and experience muffle psychological orphans who search out a history before lanes were lit in ungracious advertisements, spending hours down to nickels in an unforgiving aging arcade. There was a time when favorite trees demanded garlands for their shade. When was the last hill leveled? The vacant place where spirits turned into respectable citizens is now box covered in flickering images of tin. The rain drums heavier and we sleep more.