How The Fish Feel

Coffee permeates my bones. The sound of an oboe soothes my development. I feel like iron. I find the rustic everywhere. For example, my forehead describes agriculture the same way as my forebears, which is to say furrows and duckbilled hats.

A mutation goads what we graze into protein and speech. The hills groan with the burden of their own astonishing reality. I can see it in your eyes: perspective. It steams like a moose. That's why I'm laughing at the road.

I shake a rattle over the abyss of my seclusion. Seclusion is an illusory state, as are wealth and religion, but I need it for thermodynamics and alibis. The migrations remain magnetic, apostrophes of artless opacity, odd little people with astronomical interiors. The road sews its distances in the shade of an oak tree, where they leaven into a fever, a mania for wheels.

I sense the trembling of water under the bridge of what is assumed to be knowledge. The throat collects a sentence with a clarinet in it, then lets it loose on a tongue of fire. I climb into a prophecy oozing the honor of a thousand distant moons. I grab some socks and begin arguing with my feet. If thought is a buffalo painted on rock, expectation is a torch.

I like the vibrations of airplanes. I like the way wax melts on candles. I am fascinated by the trails that disappear in the forest. The colors of Illumination scream inside my anguish while the echoes of parliament elude the subtlety of steam. I perceive the glow of congeniality in the straw of a newborn cynosure.

How is the world perceived? Algebra crushes an emotion into deeper feeling. The equations are sugar, but the differentials are orange. I sift my opinions through a vermilion rain. Hallucinations elevate prospects of chalk. The story of my life is embroidered on a bedsheet, which is how the world is perceived, at least from my viewpoint, which is wedded to other viewpoints, which create a totem of adorable hypnosis.

We live in a trance. Who wouldn’t? I mean, give me a break. Our instincts are embedded in grease. Our being is peppered throughout by pain.

We feel special when we bring our performance into the public sphere, and this helps to push our enthusiasm toward the kind of metamorphism that provides testimony for such events. The wings develop naturally, and the streets of Prague fill with memory. If I fold it a sufficient amount of times, this emotion will fly through the air and land on a decorative representation of Lao Tzu, who knew just how the fish feel.