This is just me, and I’m no expert, but people seem to like to have a good time. The case I make is purely anecdotal, I’m going by the hooting and the broken bottles. The gutter tossed condoms and the discarded underwear. The moon shots and victory riots and the fireworks displays down the block. Spills and chills and varietal stimulation. I don’t blame them— I’ve been know to seek a thrill or two myself. I don’t blame them— anything to pass the time.
This is the hour of engines and prismatic light. This is the hour of aimless embers burning holes through the cloth. We lean hard towards the abstracted end of spacetime, symbols and stories always coming to mind, we see through the filters of our ancestors. A few steps ahead of ourselves and always lost in our thoughts, we are the font of metaphor, the magic just a few doors over. Like honeybees, we always seem to have a dance for it.
Me? I sit for hours trailing smoke and fragments. Me? I write out rhymless riddles and spilled guts rails. Considering it’s me, there’ll likely be lack and loss and missed kisses. It’s bound to bear the taint of a doom bruised brain, considering the source. I sit out in the press of light, the push of shadows, always further away from the shine. Part of it is the direction left us, time always working us from both ends. Part of it is the way of the mystery, hiding in the wide whatever. In this way I trace the shape. In this way I meet your mind. Somewhere on a Sunday, the taste of Saturday still on your lips.
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