robinbloke: (Default)
Enter the gavel. Holding aloft as if awaiting the final stroke of midnight. An endless second as it hovers, gravity timeles as it waits. Horizon to infinity. A thousand moments caught in time, each no less than the third before it and twice the one to follow; each blinks and reasserts, calls for a single defining uniqueness that cant be held (oh Ill get you and your little dog too for that, oh yes I will my pretties - arent you the orb that is dual?)
Nevertheless.
Regardless.
Neverregard.
Direction is an illusion; hear it insine, inside, curve of sound walling out from source to wash over, wave after wave, roaring over the shingles of the mind.
The hiss that remains and crackles down between each little gap is the last reminder.
Catch it.
Hold it up and see it as it fades, down, down, down down into the singular last reverberation left behind by the retreating h20.

And before you the wave crests again, washing in and swallowing you in a blanket change of state. From air to liquid; feel the
feel the
feel the
feel the
ahhhh music

And back to the chorus that is being sung again, what the words were are lost; but regardless the sound is a note at the heart; a psycosomatical (spelling, at this hour? get thee to a gin shop!) wossname of thingy from meh in blarg just past tooting left and fwibble and carry on until sunrise.

Warmth all over the skin.
Golden feeling and rising up, like being reborn.
All to much reality in a blanket over the skin.

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robinbloke

January 2016

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