Scrolling Pentateuch
The dark is a perfect canvas. You walked a mile and a half out into the wilderness of the American Southwest and you camped one night in the open, freezing desert. The night encloses and terrifies and you move a little closer to your campfire.
Dreams are moving across the sky like silent, screaming banshees: symbiotes looking for a good host. They feed on your confusion and they give back inspiration (or more confusion). The dark is a perfect canvas. Contrast is so important in almost every aspect of life: better contrast gets you closer to self-realization. Example: It's hard to know who's friend and who's foe amongst these rows and rows of steely gray ghosts.
In a beat-up el camino in the great American Southwest you begin the next day. Truckstop coffee and a syrupy short stack and you're on your way. New friends and lovers, new oases to shoot the shit. The hot black asphalt becomes sticky tar at noontime. Look in your rearview and you're being followed by the fuzz, or maybe it's nothing.
Bottleneck mirages as you approach some sad city in Arizona or New Mexico. Stop in for a coke in the convenience store and get a dirty look from the proprietor for linering overlong. Next night it's out to the cliff dwellings to try and feel more primal. Is it a false notion that we were once better equiped to handle all the baggage that life piles upon us with each passing year? What's the point of despair? If we can be more animal and less cannibal maybe we still have a chance.
The dark is a perfect canvas. I walked a mile and a half in a sandy place and a strange tribal figure approached me and gave me an animal skin, maybe covered in sheep or goat's wool or something. A rickety house on the red-orange plains. Out of place entirely. I look up at the second story window...who is that inside?
Laps and laps back and forth and/or around the track. The therapy of repetitive motion and/or minor triumph (e.g. making a basket, gracefully jumping over an obstacle in one's path) is a wonderful thing.
Stars so bright tonight.
Sincerely,
S
Dreams are moving across the sky like silent, screaming banshees: symbiotes looking for a good host. They feed on your confusion and they give back inspiration (or more confusion). The dark is a perfect canvas. Contrast is so important in almost every aspect of life: better contrast gets you closer to self-realization. Example: It's hard to know who's friend and who's foe amongst these rows and rows of steely gray ghosts.
In a beat-up el camino in the great American Southwest you begin the next day. Truckstop coffee and a syrupy short stack and you're on your way. New friends and lovers, new oases to shoot the shit. The hot black asphalt becomes sticky tar at noontime. Look in your rearview and you're being followed by the fuzz, or maybe it's nothing.
Bottleneck mirages as you approach some sad city in Arizona or New Mexico. Stop in for a coke in the convenience store and get a dirty look from the proprietor for linering overlong. Next night it's out to the cliff dwellings to try and feel more primal. Is it a false notion that we were once better equiped to handle all the baggage that life piles upon us with each passing year? What's the point of despair? If we can be more animal and less cannibal maybe we still have a chance.
The dark is a perfect canvas. I walked a mile and a half in a sandy place and a strange tribal figure approached me and gave me an animal skin, maybe covered in sheep or goat's wool or something. A rickety house on the red-orange plains. Out of place entirely. I look up at the second story window...who is that inside?
Laps and laps back and forth and/or around the track. The therapy of repetitive motion and/or minor triumph (e.g. making a basket, gracefully jumping over an obstacle in one's path) is a wonderful thing.
Stars so bright tonight.
Sincerely,
S
posted by Lord Horatio at 7:50 PM
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