Monday, 22 August 2005
An absence of sound like stillness in a void.
Stars come crashing down.
Random colours and contours split apart like atoms.
Flimsy, fragile, tragic.
There is a judgment of trees more solemn than saints.
A moment when time spins into illusion.
Ride the illusion.
Ride the chaos.
Continuity warps as fingers of expression twist the pysche.
Malable and magnificent, a utopia of self.
words byCocaine Jesus