Oh yes, he's seen the black pupils of time's eyes. Two dark drains in a pair of dirty gas station bathroom sinks. The faucet's open and he's gurgling down the pipes, gushing toward whatever tank he's...
He lies there listening to it, absorbing this sense of his own quiet drone transmuted into something of certain substance, something large, magnificent and grand—no longer him, no, but something burst...
Preferring the nausea of the path to its fated and certain ending.
They tugged plans and ambitions out their asses and held tight to the first that didn't smell so strongly of shit.
It's nice to be able to do things for other people, isn't it?That's why it's fun to talk in the third person sometimes.
Was that—did she just grin at me? To me? A moment of stillness in this moment of pause. Without speaking, we let our gazes wander slow, groping to confirm relief in the other. There's a subdued excite...
He's got all the pains of being lost and all the benefits of being told where to go. He wants it the other way around.
And you can't know it, because to know it is to be it, and to be it is to not be you.
Let's ignore all that back and front matter and just stick to emergences, cross-sections, to what's right in front of us in the divide where all-things has come to gather and to stay though hidden yet...
How nice would it be to just drop from the tree, fall from forking branches a ripened fruit thudding your weight to earth without distraction, without option—thrust to ground under gravity's current t...
Ego like bile over taste buds. Get it out or hold it in. It's the suspension will drive you nuts, churn your gut.
But finally, once in an age, there is a blink. And in that blink, you can be. And in that blink, I can be.
If you can't stomach an ending, don't begin.
