Saturday, 10th October 2009 at 19:14
Fantasmagorical
A thousand florets could ream themselves across the sky into oblivion until they crash-landed in a field of dirt, and it wouldn’t matter to the atoms combined between us. That’s where we are, the third stone from the sun, the single chord out of key in the staff. We have our noses and our brains, our synapses out-numbering anything the universe has to offer. I’ve walked this far already, and have no intention to turn back, so say what you need to now, even if the words get caught in your throat.
