|Current mood:|| bored|
Stream Of Conscience and a Cup Of Fries..
Who would have thought that it would have turned out that way, so simple and yet so surreal? It’s a question that lasts throughout the ages and a command that echoes throughout time. A simple phrase lost in the wind, never quite reaching the ears of its intended. Passable, audible, moveable, it’s a chance to be changeable and a way to be direct. Insinuated amongst its forbearers and unseen by its followers; questionably tactics.
You can’t try to understand it, it’s beyond compensation or reasonability. It’s just something you accept, like some sort of religion based on a history that never existed. It’s something to hold onto because you don’t know what else is real, even though you know that what you believe isn’t the truth of anything. It’s a simple desire to rule over that which is beneath others. Bringing up the underdog under your banner of strength, it’s just putting pity on something that isn’t as weak as you expect.
Persuasion at its core, with violent tendencies and disrespect for the gullibility of others. A monumental pause in time as the clock passes its fourth chime and you’re still waiting for it to remember its nothing more then a pendulum with a pretty face. Try as you might you can’t stop it from swinging but you managed to make it go mute and somehow time just stopped ticking by.
Plausibly, deniable proof somehow it screams dedication and a lack of inspiration or the desire to create anything but the prize that is received at the end of a monotone rainbow. Somehow you lost track at cloud number 9 and carry the extra baggage as proof of a plot gone sour as it gets swept away with that breathe that never came and the words of that phrase that echoes throughout time. That undeniable phrase that lasts throughout the ages and into the era of prehistoric and beyond the future into the realm of the immaterial despair, a question that burns the tongue but is lost somewhere at the tip of it. Like a suicide that can’t be taken on because of a heart attack seems to take the better of its victim before he can step off the roof. To bad the cops found him on the ground splattered on the pavement. It was nothing but a moral dilemma.
Castaways on a island of self doubt they batter at each others wills till they all sink in their own egos as the cash rains down from the sky like snow on a dessert. If only it came when the fire had to be lit, its not worth much without a bank to cash it or a credit to use it or a mind to bargain it off the highest bidder.
Crispy fried and baked to order it’s the crème Della crème, the cream of the crop and wind beneath goose feather wings stuffing the pillows of a man who can’t seem to wake up from the dream called reality. A pressure burning the side f his head as he bangs his brains into the bunk above him in time for early muster. To bad the captain told him last night that the bars on his shirt resembled the bars on his door and neither could be forgotten under pain of death.
Creepy old man with the fish eyes star out into a sea of chalk yelling words that get lost in the wind, that ageless phrase, the timeless command, the hallowed saying that forever is translated beyond our words….
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