the bleurgh middle of the week night feels of cool, illustrated sounds making me wonder where they all are, and what they're laughing about, the sirens of the faraway joys, far far tucked away in frowny yesterdays. pretty words added as an afterthought to hide away the petty thoughts of quick judgment and all that's playing in my head is a beat, the one that makes my shoulder blades slowly dig into each other, like tectonic plates, charging for an earthquake. rattle rattle click and break, simple words in a familiar language reminding me of loving eyes because in the end that's what we all crawl towards, despite the daily runs and rolls and hoops, i see it all through my tornado-stained glass

i miss the chills, and the freedom in which the head could lay to rest; the cool air cleaning out the ashes from the bones. fragile, fleeting, faraway visions of wide open time. in the midst of it a cloud of dreams in disarray, and the sun shining through it with golden magic, and the last ones in line raise their arms and burst out in trumpeting hurrahs across the ever-changing, peaceful universe