(no subject)
And when the questions were asked, so long ago, there was no response--but now, there is usually something more than can be understood in one sitting; trying to fill your gas tank after you have reached the limit, and while smoking a cigarette, ashing into the puddle underneath the tire. Something is bound to ignite. All is just a fake memory scribbled on paper and stuffed into a cookie jar, misleading. Because: what could have happened to the sweets? Yet new things happen anyway. Not... not fortunately.
Fake Memory:
The sun was shining a passionate blue, this changed casually for every moment that they stared at it, that mini-gang of littles. There were now only two of them, for the rest have been called in by their Pavlov-like mothers with ringing triangles. And again there was that whisper in the back of their minds, "don't stare," it hissed while they laughed it off. "Don't stare," while one of them made a knuckle and started to grind it ferociously into his eye and seeing more of maybe how blind people dream. The two remnants of this mini-gang, they were a right and a left to each other--almost mirror images. Life would never be as simple as watching clouds change shape and color in front them while they tried to grasp at the limbs in the foreground.
The left would always stroke his elbow, it would be as if his arm was broken, the opposite elbow always bent, the slink carrying the questions that no one would answer for him, to save his innoCence, his youth. The right, he was shorter, but his stare burned holes in conformity and complacenCy, it came from the matches that were being held in place under his pupils by the coming of the wise.
Saw at an angle.
Fake Memory:
The sun was shining a passionate blue, this changed casually for every moment that they stared at it, that mini-gang of littles. There were now only two of them, for the rest have been called in by their Pavlov-like mothers with ringing triangles. And again there was that whisper in the back of their minds, "don't stare," it hissed while they laughed it off. "Don't stare," while one of them made a knuckle and started to grind it ferociously into his eye and seeing more of maybe how blind people dream. The two remnants of this mini-gang, they were a right and a left to each other--almost mirror images. Life would never be as simple as watching clouds change shape and color in front them while they tried to grasp at the limbs in the foreground.
The left would always stroke his elbow, it would be as if his arm was broken, the opposite elbow always bent, the slink carrying the questions that no one would answer for him, to save his innoCence, his youth. The right, he was shorter, but his stare burned holes in conformity and complacenCy, it came from the matches that were being held in place under his pupils by the coming of the wise.
Saw at an angle.