Last night, a choir of 100 nuns sang these words in a canon:
"OPEN UP YOUR HEART TO ME"
Rainbows curled across the page. Hearts came out of the mouths of the singing nuns.
Martin wanted to kill them all.
But their singing overpowered him:
"OPEN UP YOUR HEART TO ME", they sang.
Leaning off the earth; head somewhere between the exosphere and the moon.
Sun is shooting through the trees like a machine gun popping off those ridiculous dreams you've been toying with for over and hour now. Flashes of light beat the day into night minds. Real Life pummels at the side of your eyes to make them small black beads. And that darned blue sky is jeering its subjects into realness - "you are not the measure that you are; real is the pollution you must drink. oh, and its nice to see you again, subject".
This is not a new idea.
You wanted time to stop, you pretended you'd leased the space between a second to another second. And now with the artillery of a putrid baby sky, you are birthed into a new economy where the stroke of a minute slaps your face.
Welcome to real life, subject.
This is not a new idea.
You wanted time to stop, you pretended you'd leased the space between a second to another second. And now with the artillery of a putrid baby sky, you are birthed into a new economy where the stroke of a minute slaps your face.
Welcome to real life, subject.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
