Sounded so hollow when said into the echo of the eremite’s mind.
The light in the kitchen was still on, scented curry still floating in the air, and rice ready to chill on the shelf for tomottow’s reheating in a searing nuclear explosion.
The fair madness of daily life, demanded this picture not be an obscure one.
In fact, it would be common, in some form.
Life walked along a normal path for many, as the street scene sifted transmissions through a plate glass panel, you would think it was better than LSD.
Nothing gets better these days, says the mass.
I disagree. Life does.
As real as it fucking gets, is reading through this panel of words that have been thrown into the tangled web, with a small statement, a small reminder that you were here, that there were those that “hate” you and those that think “you are a tool”.
Easier said than done.
The small beaver inside my head keeps reminding me that I got a few trunks in this forest. The buzz of the teeth yet to define benign or malignant dams.
Hard to imagine, bring on the noise.
Let me hear the thud of stone, and airs of said stone.
Not on the grass says the stapler commando? Really?
You don’t think that the cubicle, or the small mound of space you are defending is a battle against another form of it?
<grabs white russian, sits on rug, sips and smiles>
As you wish buttercup, as you wish.