His beliefs were like a fireworks display of the mind. All fizzle and cackle in the moonlight dreams of what never was. Delusions that circumnavigating facts would get you reality, which was not enough. Having achieved the goal, she’d feel finished.
There was here and there was over there: The picnic in the singing time. Dreams of a place you could so casually remember as if it was perfect when it wasn’t. Why couldn’t the sunshine just be sunshine? Sometimes I feel I have to put pen to paper to feel as though I can write at all. To breathe and
Trade in my toys and Rapunzel’s and live amongst the branches where people already abide and try to swallow up what they have to say without spitting it out. Love is a promise nobody ever made. I catch images and now just taste them for them-selves before they evaporate forever, I can’t hang onto what I value the most anymore, it has to go for a walk and never come back. It’s disappearance a gesture that something meant something at all.
