Space is this tiny interlude, between the choices, and the love-threads. But somehow, somewhere along these misty aeons, you create dangerously meaning that can substantiate your shadow and transform it into a dream, that you can change, and that you might never have to run away from, simply chase till other turns. And thru the incidents that show so many trails, and a judgment at crucial cruxes of swinging time, you’ll summit upon a place, upon a grief in the nights to foresee the great phases. Discovering sparks, and eyes that glimmer in the blue apocalypse.
An apocalypse, where the sky is asphyxiated by an array of destructive planes, and the vengeance darts in thru openings in the sky, and the guns are shot inward, and the crowds dither and wither and run, while their arms get mangled in each other’s. But to each his own, and so many fall within a district of influences, and those feelings rise only inside of you- perched on a lifeguard stand… The clouds float loudly thru islands of mud, and bodies share and sell themselves in an audition, an attempt to free the captivity, over the sounds of the flat-broke-down minutes, crossed with a funereal submission.
These events that occur in your head in unstable surrounding, become descriptive of all the things you are. There’s no cure for a diseased soul, and no fix for becoming, no highway thru this hell, no separate table to transform mundane water into cherry-cola, there’s a whole lot of nothing amid a vinyl library of troubles.
A library lined with bulleted shelves wearing shades of gloom, and accommodating personality traits, pages of pessimism from an anthology of despondence fly loosely and stick to the head. Some shelves dangle with books of good memories and feelings that stick out in the new load troubles that unleash into limited yet liminal space. And the video camera faces you for your message, your momentous love song, your wooden laments, and your anguish all dolled up in a blank recorder that spans decades of lifetime.