Perhaps when we are so full of life and love, the pricks of distress are so disturbing they threaten to burst us, to send us in all directions. So we deflate ourselves with low expectations, to let the prongs of disappointment have no resistance, they sink in to the saggy flesh of resignation. But oh what a way to live, to flop and meander with no form at all, bending to the gusts of woe. Some compromise, enough air to bound, but not too much, so as to give to the prongs. In summary, happiness maybe a matter of psi, not banking notes and health.
The night’s tears have crystallised in the corners of my eyes,
dreams colours have just faded into reality and light,
white clouds are high passing by my window
maybe it is time to start the day.
She sings in angelic tone while playing the guitar, as he taps out his genius onto the paper in his machine. It all playing out in monotone and soaks right through the screen. Heart fed by Robert Zimmerman as a car by gasoline.
Chase the violently hot egg yolk from his hidey hole
Grip the day in an Ippon choke hold and go for a stroll
Take a screwdriver and adjust the days idle screw
All your floating Devils will run and hide from you.