wenlove24

Fragments of thought. Never in full form. Always thinking, imagining. A step backwards from reality, turbidity. Trying to make sense of what to be, what of. Struggling to make sense. The earth turns. Daytime then night. It beats. Accidentally. Purpose before motive. It shifts gear. The bold signs are blinding. It wanders. Where is it going? Pause. This time it sinks to the bottom. Not coincidentally. Before the path turns wavy, it breaks. Comes the stillness. Bright cascading lights. They all fall on top of mushroom fields. She looks up, eyes heavy. Scared of the bright light. Is it over? In linear motion, the stoic subjects point to something. But what? Pry and prod. Pry and prod. The connection is deafening. This is mundane, she said. Paint a picture that can never be painted. I can hear your empty opinion. Know you are still, here.