(no subject)
This was actually something I wrote on the back of a bag in sharpie.
Time becomes non-existant in the clashing of the brown paper bag against itself, wrinkling under any touch, from in or out. Despite the air, humid and just getting wetter, the agelessness becomes comfortable, safe, serene. Being the proverbial hand in the figurative glove, the raw material of a puppet in a more literal sense evolves into a meditative experience. It's no longer being trapped within the bag, but escaping the cage without.
Pah, it's cooler actually reading it off the bag...
on the hope of his innocent intelligance. Not even knowing her, not even having to, he finds the crush he's sought. The allusions of the long drives that he might have to undertake mean nothing, only sweetening the thoughts of embraces he will have missed. Broken chair, smell of oil, the nagging of the masses of transit all dissolve in the dream of not what might be, but will be. The lone sober girl, sharp, learning, independant, dominates subtely, and he knows she does it without thought, despitehis yearn for it.
(Still working on that one)