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i was watching them in waldosia; myself and some kids. huddled. they were asking my parents if i could perambulate the wasteland near from the back of our kitchen with them but i knew they were asking for a moon. on the punctured bed at the corner, i hiddled there as an owl that couldn't deliver its message; that held a panorama, the whole world around it and other worlds beyond. yet people, they wouldn't understand. the moment it tantalized like a sacrosanct river; i felt the halves of me like the touch of laurel wreath on my head. for in the zone i could remember, it never is ineffable.
awoken by rasque of the sand under the bridge i passed and a sudden blast of instruments; i cherished this one thinking, i would only have a velvet sheet to sing out in after. my man's guitar string scar on the tip of his finger, a crowd of diamonds freckled on an empty and dark shelf that golds cannot gather and the impromptu lyrics of the emotions i deterred many moons ago inside, i had kept everything but the kitchen sink.
and once the piano's presto tempo becomes prestissimo, i will have to face my aunts who presume, every move i show off has done so, solely to impress them. dreams are like that too, that is what i want to believe. they never fail to fascinate me. sometimes i am questioning the purpose of living in the consciousness layer of life when i feel much alive asleep and i can do what is unimaginable in there. what my halves are doing when i am not dreaming and if the reality is really a memory because how is it that i still can dream in a dream i made? and if i choose to stay there, would this life i have here, be just a nightmare from a past?
