hops from sunset to sunset; in between, an old dream of freedom and a numb face flattenend by the dusty winds. dust everywhere, im biting on it, its in the air, hanging lazily, blurring vision, blocking lungs, ready to catch a spark and throw everything back at us in a silly, silly, cheerful explosion. get drenched; it's easy to miss everything if the world is big and blurred by the sun, and little details scream at you for attention. give them space, for now, and feel again when all returns.

you should have seen this when you were still high

the noise never stops, just takes in all the space you create by taking time off. all is breeze under the middle eastern sky

stormy dark hooded glow of night clinging tight onto skin just to hurt oneself for a little warmth. no sun in the world can relieve the shiver, the bones so tight that no blood flows around them, all is noir and drowning in smoke, the fire died a long time ago when you looked at me with eyes drained of colour. what colour were your eyes? now shut forever, trying to glimpse with feeling but touch is slow and parched, and doesnt connect through the thicket of dancing human vulnerability. a merry go round of anemones around my head, arms floating fleeting flooded with light pulling at all the sparks still left in the ridges. fire only flying lazily into the moon, howling at the stars to guide us through the entwined, half twitching flesh. for now all is visions, flying through space until the beats align.

chasing details in this most nostalgic air of earthly time; all is an illuminated grey, all is mute but of the kind that makes the mind colour in the rest. winter snuck in too quickly while i was turned away, too easy now that time and space are all scattered. freedom tastes bright, blinding in a way that makes the eyes light up so you can see to the depth of them; freedom used to feel bigger, and the small pieces explode in a silent, slow blur. the moments smell slightly old, like they were worn before, and are home to foxes and llamas hiding in the bushes. in the mist, the angels still pray alone, but now with seeking, outstretched arms, hugged only by the cool richness of the heavy, yellow-tinted air around them, while scenes and places dash by too quickly for them to grasp.