rocks

At times one lets themselves be driven by the music they listen to. It's a combination of forever and now, that so tells the stories of past everything. Interwoven in a mystery of regret and hope, the future seems more like the past everyday. It's affirmations like this that cause one to emotionally disintegrate. How damned are we, those without a soul. It might have been cryptically cold recently, but that is hardly any excuse at all to justify everyone's actions. What we decide at the heat of some moment, that hazy mist of existence, defines who we want to be. What situations in any number of realities and cities engrave themselves on the minutes of time, that which one boils in anticipation of whatever is new. Life seems to be a run on sentence, a thought without a point. The clock will strike midnight but it will all grow back eventually, the clean flesh surfacing angrily at an exploding earth. No one principle is safe from the scrutiny and microscopic detail of intricacy. The more we delve into, the more the comas just flow out from the pages of useless magazines and onto the lips of people, figuring things out for themselves. But soon, whatever is good for you will be back in style and posterity will wag its finger at us, the present. And we will always be current because we came before. Italics provide tone, emphasis and melting ice caps.

A million voices screaming at the sun and a window to shut when the ground cracks open; everywhere.