“There was no certainty to time, not wrapped in thickets near trash cans, or in the soul. I love the way the earth waits so intently to spring joy in only minutes of life, while the rest of the times, we’re being ourselves. This goes to show that we’re sad, and the show always goes on.” He shrunk to the foot of the bed and fell in interruption of his musings.
Something always disturbed his bad routine, and even if he knew it was bad, and he wasn’t in the ultimate illusion of life, he would go on with it.
It became sadder eventually, as if it were stomached to perish in the freshness of cancerous sunshine. Sometimes he would find a calm amid the pillars of smoke that occluded the bluesy grayness of his eyes, and the hands that wire truth to unreality, which would sustain him another day. From there on, it was dreams and epiphanies arranged to the opening sequence of his construed eternity. He sunk into the lungful sofa on a Friday afternoon, and he mused another sympathetic thought, “I can’t let everything seem so dark blue” but then he thought about nothing. Not about the concept of nothingness and not about its apartment complexes for imagination. Blankly staring the ceiling and the bookshelf holding his definitions, that ecotone was the finale to all his feelings.
The positioning of protective surface over important persona, inspired the closing spark as he ascended toward colour deprived sleep endlessly.