#0005. Don't surrender to your sullen void. The things that make you spark will dance like fire on your lashing tongue. The burning gives way and you want to see what makes you tick. Here is a garbage heap of misery. But the sky is blue and so is the sky. The dancers are sparks on your lashing tongue. Watch the mystery hours unfold. They left this out for you to stumble across. And you thank them for their moment. The dancers are tongues themselves, burning out like the dying embers. This place is a secret place.
No comments:
Post a Comment