same story, different name
i wish that the light looked that way here, some times. And that there was grey, and bright, and dark, and light. All mixed into shades, smeared with a thick brush onto taut canvas.
just shy of the table, a man threw paint pots onto a road. at first, vibrant colours slaked and snaked their way across the perfectly horizontal tarmac, in vivid rainbows. the more colour was added, the less colour appeared. gradually the colours fell into one shade of fade.
this vibrancy. it only exists where the mind tells little white lies. a dream sequence in colour. where back to this city we go to slip on slicked pavements. to inhale the sickness gently evaporating from spit globules as the sun rises. our friends here in the grey. in the dull. in the arcane tubes leeching underneath the undulating chestfalling crestfallen hills upstairs.
outside the boundaries. where streams carry fewer plastic bags, and where trees exist uncaked with soot and sweat and stench. where unknown beeps trip and click. where you step from the cynical and the jaded and become deshelled and unshrivelled. home is…
home is always far away and never yet reached.
four, and counting.
[shh. no cinematic dreams tonight. no credits rolling with names of the millions we’ll never know. no worries. no alarms. no sweet bitterness. watch your fronds of breath condense…]
