“One third of our life is spent in sleep,” said Gérard de Nerval. “After a few minutes lethargy, a new life begins.” Is this your dream or mine? I’m going to say for the sake of convenience it’s mine, and also because the airport is surrounded by hotels, good hotels, the ones that offer a sufficient amount of towels. Dreaming is one way to crawl into the sky. Translating the moon is another. Who speaks moon? Learning moon is difficult. It’s a cross between the Algonquin as spoken by the Blackfeet and French. For example, some feelings are longer than others. Others are thicker, denser, and with the piquant flavor of apparition, which is the smell of sage coupled with seclusion. Is one ever truly alone? The moon tells us that gray is ok but blue is better. Better to be blue than gray. Better to be literature than literal, coruscation than clay. And here I am crawling into the sky. Think railroad and wear wrestling. Magnetize benediction and swallow reality. This is the indigo where it alters a brain. Reality decorates age. Sags beside a gamble. Open fire. Fiddle pickles. I feel alive and hold my trumpet to endeavor gold. I am my own bed about a daub of red and crinkle science in a contraption of fingernail, like definition. Yesterday I saw a man repair a ceiling fan in a cartoon. It caused me to smell of humus. And then I felt the need to be clever and went looking for a splash of divinity to get rid of this feeling, which I did, and it sagged through time. Is our social being ever done with being social? Is it ever truly winter? Yes, and it’s irritating. Sensation serves independence to the balloons. My perceptions percolate through an opinion. I feel a certain sorcery in the construction of blood. I insist on fog. There is a treasure in your eyes called seeing. I want you to see it. I want you to see seeing as I see seeing and see it and be it and open your eyes and paint and bond to a cloth. The drive to be great is flinging itself among the empty. I will send you a tie to think about this. This is why biology has paradise in it. It’s not a gag so much as a blossom. Dreamy and soft. This means fulmination is happening. I like to bubble and chronicle such things. I feel parallels for breakfast that make me myriad in my itching. It’s so beautiful to oblige a sidewalk with walking to the side. Let’s just say that I like to collect sensations and beat them into contrasting hues. The kitchen widens during cows. It makes me demanding and pale. My reactions to Renoir keep changing. And yet nothing pleases me more than a tray of ice cubes. I can say no more about indigo than what I said about the seashore. The chin refines the mouth by being interactive and simple. These are the incidents that shiver at the drop of a heart. And this is the smell that whispers through creosote. These are the words beneath the moral. And this is the moral that makes no sense to be angry at life when the enfoldments wrinkle into pronouns.
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