New Year's
It was a walk into water. The snow fell glazingly on all sides, freezing the unstable time of just past the new year. I had warmed my soul some with the sucking of sin juice, and rum.
I traced my footsteps as I walked, seeing their tiny life, and their deformities. How they turned in space, and how they seemed to face both forward and back.
I made my way to a college of Westminster. Late time, as I am seeing the clock inlayed like a godless eye on the victorian of building and brick. I wandered in the snow. I came upon a parking lot, a giant swath of not-nature, where sky climbed down to crust to mingle with the thought of hell. It moved as together and as a one. On the library of books building read a giant inscription: The future belongs to those who believe/|dreams. /| is where the building cut off its own message to a someone reading from the sheltered snowless.
This morning in my email: "The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams"
-Eleanor Roosevelt.
What the hell. What are the chances that the same inscription I read on a wall that I shouldn't even have been at at two in the morning last night, would appear in a random email? And that I should even have read the email?
it's a new year. is there beauty in my dreams? I assume so, but maybe that's the danger. Assumption.
"Real time" is merely that which can be smeared.
I am to wander here for days before I find the light, of the window, of the house, that houses all.
-Sam
I traced my footsteps as I walked, seeing their tiny life, and their deformities. How they turned in space, and how they seemed to face both forward and back.
I made my way to a college of Westminster. Late time, as I am seeing the clock inlayed like a godless eye on the victorian of building and brick. I wandered in the snow. I came upon a parking lot, a giant swath of not-nature, where sky climbed down to crust to mingle with the thought of hell. It moved as together and as a one. On the library of books building read a giant inscription: The future belongs to those who believe/|dreams. /| is where the building cut off its own message to a someone reading from the sheltered snowless.
This morning in my email: "The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams"
-Eleanor Roosevelt.
What the hell. What are the chances that the same inscription I read on a wall that I shouldn't even have been at at two in the morning last night, would appear in a random email? And that I should even have read the email?
it's a new year. is there beauty in my dreams? I assume so, but maybe that's the danger. Assumption.
"Real time" is merely that which can be smeared.
I am to wander here for days before I find the light, of the window, of the house, that houses all.
-Sam