Soda Garbage

He sits down and reads aloud a letter.

Let us reminisce. At the incoherent axis of our knowledge are only marionettes. Let us remember what we are: of pastel-pure and ungloved vigilance.

It's cryptic. The code reads: water is necklace. Necklace can set you free.

Oh, how the dust gathers. Oh, such a wound is the spell out, Nemesis dredging his heart. Basking in starlight, so wild and elemental, he's a lip-reader crossing the classroom. The bath is full of ink. The fact is he doesn't belong here.

Watch his void dance leave behind no trace. Take your papers and your pens straight into the hearts of the men and women. Suck him, toasters, and then leave.

Put this in your journal: one day he will reclaim the world.

For does he not love the dawn's improvement, mounted in broad daylight, on all fours crying at the revelatory dreams? Is he not waiting for a sign to make the women and the men wonder?

Yes, it's a common flaw. It's a dark memory flow. The books he prizes are always burning. His body is returning to the place of kneeling again, at the birth of the heart's envelope.

His confession is: there have been others.

He feels like he's been shot in the chest like a wild animal. It's a common flaw. It's a dark memory flow. He's dreaming of the weather forecast. He's getting so much pleasure and his gift is meat, meat of the meadow, meat of the orchard. He's listening with the ear of the earth, as dead to sound is the long night. The back of his neck is slipped open.

Virtuoso citrus eyes and a welcoming smile from the merchant let him in the toy shop. He sells his daemon's head. The hammer strikes the cymbals on his fingers. The stellar voices with their lips of down and apple cry out in the daylight. He wants to escape while he's hearing the night owl calling, for life is affected with oil of uniform, there are rippling tongues that could break the hymen of the genie dispenser; for the inanimate is not a synthesiser.

The back of his neck is slipped open. A saw-toothed bulldog transports him to the anchor site of the planet where the funnels are up full blast on either side of a tower of roses. There's a nocturnal ebbing of the lantern of knowledge, but there's nothing in it.

You can renounce your liquid paper. The men and women are only there where fire finds them. Water slips through them wherever they are caught, conjured from living things. The men and women are there where fire finds them. They paint their own faces on the garden wall like it is the figurehead of an old ship, and the season of wandering ushers our favourite character once again to bleed in multicolour.

Who is observing him while he eats and reads? Are there truly giants living in the hills? Perhaps he will be summoned for jury service or speak through a loudspeaker or lick a postage stamp.