.....WAIT...w...a...it...

Tremendous scattering of the tiny reflects oil in the dust. There are no branches to intertwine, no vines to birth the soma elixir coaxing my throat to forget all the outside so as to focus on the inside wanting to transcend back out to the outside always there. Transcendence is a bitch in heat waiting for the noon sun to set and her tail to stop wagging at the gloriousness of the day. It takes too much and leaves only scraps behind suitable for minions in a web complex enough to have minions and pawns, ingloriously for the rise of glory. To get to the top step a high heeled broken ankle must find the golden duck tape and piece it all back together again. If gravity would bend for a moment in time, take a rainbow and make it a black frown, then subjectivity could reign supreme and we could pretend that opposites are detachable so as to enjoy the false extreme. Fingers are going backwards into their sockets, they care not for awkward landings on strangers’ shoulders that want strangers’ fingers one day and smack them with the fly swatter the next. A prayer to indecisiveness accumulates as a cloud rising straight up just to fall back down into the piss pool gathering underneath the leg of a scared child trying to think, trying not to think, of next.