How many frames must we squeeze into before we find that one that fits and starts, heads nodding in the half light to another performance? Stationary, removed, we sedate and quell the fires of rebellion in our heads in our hearts, and celebrate the presentation replica of the very same.
Shielded by screens,false serenity,slick sheen
Exorcise our demons; it's all a part of the process.
Cycling back through images of debauched recent past Commercial street bar bathroom stall finds text message provocation; this woman replied unexpectedly with the awaited initiation, only to remove it and leave little romeo hanging again, to read and write in an open plan office filled with Thursday night blue moon emptiness.
An open bottle in an orange plastic bag defiantly enjoyed in the dry beige train carriage speaks the same whatever the language of the salute; a tarot book confusion headache, the blunt echo of yesterday's drinking, such a sophisticate such a glutton:
Morals of stories that used to have some, allegories that lost their way because their figures of speech just didn't add up, the sheet could not balance and thus the music lost it's home.
Memories lost in trade because of structural flaws in the construct; the tower could not balance and thus the moments all jumped.
Desolate, 3 drinks later, your friends gone move from green lit saturday night bar to same platform where premonition of reciprocity was felt and wait, balled brown paper bag brushed aside onto tiled floor. A rejection.