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Showing posts from October, 2015

Cricket

The Box

the box glows blue channels one to seven billion we are not even present flicker, flicker, a taper for your dream cushioned consensual comas it's nice flick, flick, flicker the box glows blue the background noise squaring some view by standard definition limiting horizons the box is you the telly, who knew? aloof on a pedestal the box glows blue blankly witnessing divorce its quality is true it's quality the box glows blue
Channel 666: Another standard – hand – held – remote – control. With buttons. Rectangle horizons set sunsets without warmth. Serial cycles: death, credits, rebirth The recent eternal, those pesky men of straw are at it again "Tonight in Hegel's Dialectic see truth being bludgeoned by hillbillies, Survivors, <celebrity_name>, <politician_#93419>, the News at 7, <CurrentPropagandaPiece>. Don't miss it!"
…at home on the couch, with filters wide open we're little more than everything we've ever seen I mean you are what…

Southern Suburbs

Image
Views like this bring up a certain mood in me. I can sit for hours and just stare at images like these, lost in the memory, or letting the thoughts ebb and flow.


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For more photos, see my deviantArt profile

2015-07-01

He sat in a patch of weak winter sun. Lukewarm at best, poking from between clouds. He wanted to feel its warmth, he wanted to have the heaviness inside him thaw. Not today sighed the wind.
Not today.


Because what is life really but some chronology of insanities? One blind leap of faith after another, until one last leap ends in oblivion.


Tiptoeing on the shore. Because what else is there to do? The tail end of your twenties, and already you feel you've lived too much. You've imagined yourself into the lives of almost everyone around you. Found them lacking. Just some people on the internet excite you, some glimpse of what life could be, what it has to offer, what you've already tasted. But now you're in the 9 to 5, by your own choice you've sold your soul. To make another man rich, giving him the best of you, you labour like a prostitute, and what you have left are the crummy evening hours, the darkness when you're drained after a whole day working towards a mo…