this place always reminds me of a blister…you know the bubble and then the hot liquid gushes over thinly veiling the inescapable sting…a billowing hillocky quest of unlimited proportions. a relentless, inevitable necessity peeling of one’s fleece softened by kindness or rough to the touch unable to spin…where is the flimsy line of exactitude that spells a greek formula few find necessary…the bypassed no fly zone of cerebral simpleheartedness… and then a breath, a child-like grace written in between a cacuminal sigh…how absurd the seamless struggle gliding weightless.. enough thoughts to fill a vaccuum of repeating multiplication signaling a cup running over onto a dry silent desert sweeping a new broom of delight.
walking wilson came to realize the road never ends. in the quiet crunch of expression he heard the voices of unwritten stories migrate in a rustling cacophony of untethered leaves blowing in the raw wind of a calm day. camoflaged the shifting spark motivated the report reflected in the stirring sound of birds illuminate a will he clearly comprehended not. spilling over the crowd of forgotten figures soon stopped his forward motion with a desire to affect his untouched story silent in the scattering seconds. disturbing the darkness began a patronizing story with a single purpose to weaken his way. hungry for a smoke he smiled and sat on a soft stone of scrutiny watching and waiting.