Strangers, than fiction? I have no words. There is someone looking after the Red Baron, now Grey. The playhouse. The pool. The snacks. The gesture was very much appreciated. The brilliance of the moment, noted. Still, I was born into something entirely violent and ignorant. I have to fight the matters related to me, to address something that could go very wrong for a lot of people. I have to do this, and it is beyond measures depressing. I simply wanted to be with someone, and it wasn't going to happen. I know who he is. Where is he? J. R. knows who he is. I can die alone just fine. Where is he? I never let him go. He stays with me regardless. Does he even get that? And it wouldn't be this universal type of matter, as the very sensation, of our disappearing act together is overwhelmingly present each moment we share, at a distance, far, far, away, among the mirror, and yet, underlying the illusion of it all. I think of an image, to figurines, reaching outward, looking, pig-tales tied to each other, pivoting outward, seeing poignantly as the sensation grips the blindness. I think of new college, the checkered floor, though of some grand measure. Walking. Footsteps. Hollow echoes. Moments can be shared for a fleeting moment, but never to encounter each others echoes. We are on the rock. Spinning around a ball of fire. We could pretend to hold each other for this moment, but again, this is a disappearing act. How we connect, mysterious and uncertain, even if promoted otherwise. Our responsibilities, never among these distortions, but rather ingrained. I wouldn't cling among the assertions of such notions. I wouldn't need to survive, that is. None of us survive if we are being brutally honest with each other. We can consider, we can assert, we can hold a basis, and yet, echoes among a chamber of disharmonious harmony. I think of the sound of waves from the ocean, of some frightening scene, like blood waves. A beautiful sound, and yet, among even the sweetest sounds of a chorus, a sobering hand dealt. Hands reaching out in the distance, a dark rolling visual approaching, and people on this fine hour's shore, attempting to blind themselves with artificial light and chessboards, to preoccupy. I think this is love, though far removed from the manufactured form presented in the Hollywood machine. It's an overwhelming substance, fully demasked, embracing that unpretending hour. It's a moment when, depressing events emerge, and one is sitting in some form of industrial desolation, worthy of T.S. considerations, listening to the Verve on repeat. Bittersweet Symphony, only among a distant and hollowing echo chamber, encountering other voices, other rooms, remembering best friends and family members we care about, among some cold and distant sensation comforting, like fly fishing. We all experience that tug I think, and wonder. It's never literal and cliche. It's deeply layered and veiled. I think even in this echo chamber we come to age, when we stop considering our ambitions, and enter into a forum considering the ritual among us and before us. We listen to the distant laughter. The coffee pot returning to a needed production, the vacuuming in the distance, the fleeting conversations no longer. We disappear despite a coming of age. What is to become of that? And I wouldn't want to be caught up among these words, among this form of language arrangement. Rather, I think of the little prince, among our distancing sounds and visuals, as we disappear even among our closest remembrances of experience. It's our given progression, fading to grey, embracing dissipation, and yet, we seem to be doing this together, even when all, the assurance, the comfort, veils the actual experience. It's okay for matters to remain open. Opening up as closure, seems more in-line for matters needed, than some false sense of embrace' Even as the youth steps forward for the new arrival that has sounded off before, again and again. It's some type of differing phase, hollowing from the arrogance of youthful assurance. It's care among the hollowing, among the ritual as we disappear. We are no longer on the stage. The stage wasn't there, even as the younger crew embrace the spectacle. Their hands are on the wheel looking forward, and our ears, hearing a distant roar, among turbid hues, among dissipating echo chamber. Our bodies, our health, our ambitions, our desires, our lives lived, as good as the dirt. There's a beauty among this, that is far removed, from those mesmerized by their time. We have too much grey to be getting older. We are simply old I think. It all comes with new baggage, and I think it is more interesting then what we had before. It all falls apart as we pick it up.
And of course, the reason remains insofar, so matters are at that opening, of what may or may not be the case, between oscillations interacting. Again, it falls apart as we pick it up.
