Sunday, February 8, 2015

Between Hotels

Nothing escapes necessity except the necessity to escape. The world is a place of migration. The colors of the horizon are eternally alluring. It’s a mood that you carry with you, like a crumpled ball of aluminum foil. Each moment is a voyage. Press a button in the elevator and see where it takes you. Mutations are normal. In fact, plans for a new kitchen are spread across the table this very day. It sings in my blood like protein. I can smell the music in an Idaho potato. The door hangs from its hinges pleading to be opened. After all, this is art. Perception is a process, not a jackknife. We’re talking black pepper, marjoram, kaffir lime, aromas that are distinct on their own but send wearers on imaginary getaways and daydream rendezvous when blended with other scents.
Be kind to your legs. Let them finish what they’re doing. Remember: the moon’s distance from the center of the earth is 240,000 miles.
A sentence can justify so many things, including consciousness, which is a basket of light. Vermillion murmurs like an apple hanging in the brain of a blackbird.
Gravitation is mutual. For every action an equal and opposite reaction is produced. Marilyn Monroe wore nothing to bed but a few drops of Chanel No. 5. This proves that the dark is a contradiction of stones and sponges wet and sparkling, funky and fresh.
Every fundamental event in the universe can be interpreted by bringing it close to your face and sniffing it. The olfactory membrane inside the human nose has 50 million receptor cells capable of transmitting information on some 10,000 different odors and is the only part of the central nervous system that has direct contact with the external world.
This includes Wednesday, granite, and meat. It might also mean hair, or a simmering example of vanity.
Infinity climaxes as a shadow by percolating itself through a pretzel. This creates a semantic powder called seeing. The obstetrics of upheaval arrive in perception tracing a ripple of time. Repair yourself with pain. This will entail fatalism. Blood is alive with thirst and will play with secretion until a sentence is produced answering prophecy with criticism and adapting to the vagaries of digestion with exquisite conjugation.
And just like a library where you can find all the best books, the human mind starts the sexual morning with a bubbly ear and raw dancing. The riddle of malt whiskey wanders through consciousness like a swollen begonia. Contrasting cries for help grow into prose with literal terra-cotta sideburns. The floorboards creak. Even the accordion over there in the corner has something to say about Being.
Quality, whatever it may be, is revealed to us as being. This will appear obvious if the gas station is open. The car submits a headlight, a bell rings, and everything falls into place, including these words, which are tilted toward an expectation of bugs.  


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