TORN OUT SECTION 2
If you were to walk straight out of the ornately carved cedar doors, ones eye immediately fooled and tricked by the complex array of fountains leading down to the shore. Awash in the prism effect of water mingled with the cadence of sound interwoven with the cracking eggs of sunrise. I lost sight of where I thought I was supposed to be, my limbs stretch back in the early morning joie de vivre; I finally feel human again after so much time away. The day brings whatever comes around the corner.The man who knew too much could never stay away for long.after his stint in the complex city-he wanted nothing more than to taste the sweet revenge, which so often is the rise and fall of all good men. What drives one person to obsession will lead another man on a crusade of his own, for the world is made of dichotomy and balance that is how it has always been and will forever remain-- drawn in the fine sand of collective memory lingering like a childs finger-painted watercolor blowing in the whispery dusted winds of long ago summers. Waiting for someone to come and give it some meaning through the validation of shared experience.
If you were to walk straight out of the ornately carved cedar doors, ones eye immediately fooled and tricked by the complex array of fountains leading down to the shore. Awash in the prism effect of water mingled with the cadence of sound interwoven with the cracking eggs of sunrise. I lost sight of where I thought I was supposed to be, my limbs stretch back in the early morning joie de vivre; I finally feel human again after so much time away. The day brings whatever comes around the corner.The man who knew too much could never stay away for long.after his stint in the complex city-he wanted nothing more than to taste the sweet revenge, which so often is the rise and fall of all good men. What drives one person to obsession will lead another man on a crusade of his own, for the world is made of dichotomy and balance that is how it has always been and will forever remain-- drawn in the fine sand of collective memory lingering like a childs finger-painted watercolor blowing in the whispery dusted winds of long ago summers. Waiting for someone to come and give it some meaning through the validation of shared experience.
VIEW 5 of 5 COMMENTS
cheech:
Hey, I read this earlier. I was a lil tipsy (like the people in the club) and couldn't think of anything to say. Now it's 1 a.m. and I still can't. I'm gonna go to sleep. Spent the evening with Lemmy Caution and Natasha Vonbraun playing skee-ball. Won a backhoe. I have no idea how ta drive the thing.
minsc_and_boo:
hey hey hows it going?
