The lights on the right side of the hemoglobinous torturesphere flash affectingly accelerating accolades up into the synaptical nimbusphere. I looked up from the horrifying hologram long enough to catch a beat or two, just a dot and a couple of dashes, job well done, but you're done, son.
The fire on the left side of the spheroid tortureglobin burns brightest at the close of day, at the break of day, in the empty solitary space in between, when the consciousness is unencumbered by strain and rumors of strain. I blinked and missed the heavy dragging boots, the slow methodical lurch of a stranger.
In the middle of a sea of torture-globinous hemospheres, we swim and drown, inhale and exhale, fill the solitary space with our lives like puffer-fish at the sight of a stranger. We love and live and lie and work and help.
They..must..never..know..of..our.....masterpiece
1 comment:
this is truly a masterpiece.
The fire on the left side of the spheroid tortureglobin burns brightest at the close of day, at the break of day, in the empty solitary space in between, when the consciousness is unencumbered by strain and rumors of strain. I blinked and missed the heavy dragging boots, the slow methodical lurch of a stranger.
i am in awe of you, my dear.
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