This Whisper Is A Photograph.

And back the storm comes. Whatever I'm doing here, I really don't know. Upside down, in-between, it's all the same really; all descriptors of some undefined thing.

Shivers and tingles and all things small. Apathy extraordinary.
It's not that I don't appreciate so much as I just don't care.

This just isn't doing it anymore. Nothing is. Create create create create create CREATE CREATE CREATE CREATE.

Pages past, thoughts lost. Divulge your secrets, tell me everything you hold dear.
Or let me rip them from you, let me eviscerate from you anything and everything. Consume.

Consume.
Consume.

I want it all, I want everything that can be contained.

Savor every little bit down to the last fleeting moment.

Though every one is.




Unfold, accept. Trace it all back and find the first knot, the point that skewed it all. Like a twisted cord, find the right direction.


Walking through valleys to hear the echoes. Step step step. Each one it's own rhythm inside a rhythm. Lost in nothing. The noise seems to transport me. Think without thinking. Double. Semblance. Shiver and tingle, shiver and tingle.

Never to feel it again. Divine or tragic?

Such romantic words for such meaningless things.