[ The synaptic firings of the brain. The streamline flow and harnessing of the subconscious. Memory failure. A backwards step. A Freudian slip. Saying a word so much it sounds vague and unreal. A calloused patience. A thick aroma. The obsolete meaning. The archaic use. Secrets of space. Time lapse. Sleep deprivation. A wish for time travel. Science fiction. The glowing organs of deep down fish. Flat, white, expansive terrain. Sometimes: wind patterns in stretches of sand. ]
Just like you I am the collection of single cells working in perfected hive fashion to move the magnificent force that is the human infrastructure. Nothing more. Nothing less.
.
I want to expand your temporal lobe; have it swell with a brilliant sonic fervor. I'll exist only in your ears. Like a warm, milky, silk worm - I'll bed there - Let me shake your from your thoughts.
.
[ Old, peeling, cracking paint, like curled pages from some exhausted book. Bulging leaves of crisp chemicals overturned; stricken with the sway of age. How about a fluorescent tubes struggle to light up some meek hovel; Oh, its tired yellow rays. Or, Fleeting follicles in the creases of ceaseless sun through venetian blinds. There's the boiler room cacophony (that's just so soothing) with its network of archaic pipes leading to what seems like nowhere. How its valves shiver and shake with daily pressure. Upon the facade of a dead factory its dull multi-shaded windows glow, they're still standing, full of holes; they take up shelter with wooden boards. Shh, the radiator just rattled awake, and with its steady groan fills the air with comfortable heat and a tired smell. Over there, city lamps filter through foggy windows and dew. From another room, the quick hues of blue from a television set paint walls. Down an unkempt road an old motorcycle sputters away with a brown paper package twined to its seat; its bows bouncing with each line of decay in the road and its skin dotted darker by the drooling of rain. In ill lighting, crude scrawls on the interior of a match book suppose letters and numbers; complacent, never in memory. They both wore silent stares - they both simultaneously knew. Alone, the sound aroused when placing your entire head under the surface of still water in a silent bathroom; that thick cut of your heartbeat. You arouse the steady images, now. A link with the pressure in your temples; around your veins - the sound of your flow - the conscious catalyst reminds you that: yes, you are here, and you are alive. Perhaps not real - but alive. ]
we retract the 'foo-nugget' comment. it's below our grade and maturity level.
we also want you to know that you're the first person to talk to us [maybe there's a reason for that..?], and we appreciate and enjoy your musical stylings, fool.
