Into the Moss

Behind sludge grey drapes, I'm a little lady leaking refrigerant.

Stav opens the book. Wait, what? No one knows that book! Mike closes the book.

Subtle hums of distant flight, melodic murmurs weave through scattered notes, Rippling streams entwine with cosmic breezes, crafting celestial songs, Endless chords converge, the universe sighs in serene rapture.

A bishop got brained. His bones lay at the crossroad. A passage through time.

The Eotogram sat frail in my sister's grasp. I held it better.

Floodlit streets converge, embracing only matter.

Bonds form in turmoil.

Quiescent within, error and delusion gone. Now burst into flames.

Lost shells, Broadway dreams. Cracked hearts yearning in the crowd, echoes in the wash.

Do not ride gently over that sheer precipice; squeal like a piglet.

Languid jet pack dreams. Men screaming at men again, passing verbal gas.