INWARD SPRINKLING

The withering splashes of the soul-form turtle are challenged by the rose-yellow squint of the setting Sun; the chirping of birds - not so much -, an army of blind, mouthy nobodies locked in the shells of rhapsodies, razor primitives kicking onion eggs in the wasteful Time.

The Dutch leaders of the bubbly twilight planet are gradually encircling our distorted, petty fears. Slivers of light will nudge my feet as Dawn approaches. Even so, one would have to get into a red-painted elevator box to take it down to the ground floor, even if it seemed claustrophobic.

Soon our heads will start to boil again because of Summer; atomic-sized light is blinding, while we can sweat at forty degrees. The sebaceous fat will squirm between the unsightly tissues of the fleshy tissues, while others can't wait to get undressed. The wind gets into more and more rubbish in the city of Nineveh, the brainwashing of standing poster ads will continue for some time. The barefoot dream fades away before it can be born, because there was never enough money, crouched down.

Is it appropriate to feel the passage of years on sagging faces in a parenthesis den?! I felt the bite of a fat female mosquito begin to itch on my freed Enkidu arm, and I thought: why is the wide range of human emotions so complicated?! A smelly vinegar poultice may have been repaired. There are more and more Cains out there, and like slimy eels, they rub themselves for obtainable, manipulable interests and benefits. Heading towards an escalator, as if the damned soul-travellers were heading towards the open mouth of the Underworld...