Slaughtered, wired, weary under the cover of stressful notions and truth. Awkward seconds led to a bummer, happy hours to a happy summer. Yet I miss all the sights, mountains, and the long drives, bars of pleasantries, birds in canopied trees, trenched bridging the light that dwindle, fluctuate between nighttime, daylight, icing sugar on the sight, pressing a howling, scowling mood of weather. My length is angry, my eyes trying to recover from the return to truth, I still remember so many things, yet not as clearly as I yearn, as I had earned by simply presenting myself.
Institution and industries, part of a memory forever, evermore magic moments, caught under my sweater from the spills of milkshakes. I miss shooting around the shouts of laughter, and the screams of inner worries. But they were all hidden, hidden under the letters that I write to save a recognition, a coarse cognition, that realizes color and splits its joy. The time in dunes were fresh out of luck, with an abundance of ducks to keep tracks of lines, staying in a hostel was fine. And oh yes, I miss the excitement, the revelry outside walls, outside the realty sewn into jobs that make hateful unoriginality. Inspiration comes from rocks and wells, paintings of Rockwell, texts of young poets, lit by the stars and the moon, repeated in electric insomnia, cherished in mutual friendship, love, and the affairs cracked under the crux of legalities.
Soul, spirit, clung whole around the intracranial handwriting, firm carves of distinctive canvas, uppers pink and purple, factories, burgers and shops around the empty streets, around the Dutch beats, revolving around oceanic renditions of Israeli prayers. Watching movies, silver screens, trash magic, agony fiend.