It is in an hour that I know pensiveness. Wrapt legs on the columns of my downward-forward spiral and the flecks of cheating-faithful feelings are in attention-lazy mechanisms.
I can see blue eyes beneath an ocean. There are brown ones too and black ones as well - grey-green and greys and greens together - like little circular schools of wish.
And flecks of skin pinching off like vacuoles in some plant. I tease the thinking portion of my brain and try to reflect upon a plethora of good wills. Nothing stuns my aura anymore.
I am random. I am fixed. I am lethargy-prone. I am also biased by activity.
I think of Charlie kissing me and me kissing her and him and how both names gets confused by a small spots of clay and feathery fats.
In this hour I feel relaxed tension. It does hibernate sans hibernation and moves sans movement but I can't seem to wake this dreaming-waking vibe in me.
The storms are laying eggs.
And soon hatchery of demons, phantoms, phantasms, apes and lizard and other such things crawl into a being that is me.
Am I channel? Do I fulfill anything?
Am I a channel to fulfill something?
Can the core of the un-core speak to me?
Does the subconscious find anything useful?
It's only an hour.
Breathe.
