Underneath the soaring sky, the Svengali above making sure that his baby earth remains, rumoured to kiss an apocalypse soon with its body writhing in polluted hotness. The Svengali hanging earth high on a rocky noose in his garden of intergalactic quackery. The hospital downward on the bones of earth, released Jim into an ironically brisk atmosphere.
He predicted the architecture of the day, in the end he wouldn’t lose something as good as himself. The thrill of chasing, and escaping, and falling had withered because he rippled too fast, the water probably waded and gave way for him to flow down bars, and clubs, to pavements and avenues; hospitals. Nothing seemed so loosely suicidal to him than to have fences closing in on him, blinding him with grass greener in a more calmer way than his eerie self-destructive greenery. What was so profoundly found as to keep him Collected. Untamed. A freak.
The thought of running after and beyond the end of this plateaued life, where his time had been poured out of a Corona bottle, and his soil was Marlboro ash which flowered deception and imperfection, was jumping in and out.
He captured his feet and dared them to trek the steps to a bus stop, and deliver himself to any mountainous region. The rocks opened and hailed him in, the breeze pushed him to carry the weight of his body forward and submit to the summit. Soon, night drew in closer, magnified by the stars, the darkness was fondled in the eternal distance, and the moon threw up light at the clichéd romanticism. As hours sailed by, he extracted a sheaf of prescription bills from his pockets, and unintelligibly etched with his nicotine stained fingers: I’m exploring a third dimension, a sturdier perspective to hold out all hills, and trees, and not be a one trick pony, no million dollar mountain, but a traveller of infinity.