So strange, to be recognized by those who barely know me, yet ignored by those i have connected with. Is it a misconception? Is it an ancient frozen narwhal? Is all that is salvageable its DNA?
(now the dreams are thick and more defined, visual atrocities, light convulsions)
While the maker sat alone surrounded by itself, the senses dulled to a metaphysical delusion. Lamps turned into green smelling porcupines. Trees swayed in the wind as lungs, breathing them in and fueling the blood behind the tongue. Candle sticks flickered in musical rhythms, speaking our ancestors names through the flames. Dirt gets swept up by roots, families from dust become truth. The sun awakes bristled scratches, latching onto flavored bright white batches.
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