Garbled to Absurdity
There are things soothing like the sound water moving, moving at depth not perceivable, at dense dark hours of the night immeasurable. The base plucked by their gurgle stiffens the colorless roots of darkness. They only mark the beauty of night. This hour of sleep, when the wind has blown the light away, over meadows and hills, over land and sea, passes quicker than the split wake minutes of work-play. Conscience and concern just asserts their functionality to such alterations with a profound hum.
A few of the dissimilar consciences will find themselves amid dilapidated balconies staring at the falling stars, and breathe high with liquor or puff low with smoke. Their silence im-mortified by the gaze at the majesty of spinning stars, what deliver itself up to their perceptions, which remain vulnerable to the grab of anything that’s quizzical. If half stood, the iron railings touching below the feet would alter heat within.
Glass, which is as empty as thoughts, for now, tilted to a side would wait for the loose fingers to let it fall. This medium for mathematicians, poets and philosophers has ever stood by as hard as it could, trying to support a free flow of inventive inspiration, until it could. Even if man has spilt association with them.
The uneasy heavy eyes would trace lines between star points as vertex of infinitely concave polygons forgetting the first and subsequent vertex after finding the next one. Finally the entire horizon would curve into lost memory which would eventually melt into space.