Why deny, flyer through the sky? Are you intoxi-canted? Why tie? Knots and knots and knots of them, waving and praying and play-ing things in the face of lightness, the debate ebbing and flowing for all of time, back to front, then to here to evermore. Acoustic sounds, strings, sacred saucers flying as always through the night sky, ever-high, each new voice familiar, like a family, brother; like a family, sister. Those words beg of us, siblings - fight for the game to go on! Without little victories, little defeats, there is nothing worth fighting for; there are no sides nor sights to see.
Walking through the streets, a man comes and is rambling frantically to himself and the streams of words evoke latent fear, for the fear of a foe is always waiting to meet the latter - it's just a matter of time, lover, before you meet it. And so he spoke, on and on and the as he did so the waves rattled the shoreline and the vibrations changed, the streets grew wired with an essence of madness, evergreen and ever-growing; my eyes light up; I can see his eyes and they meet mine; and I speak to him fearless, as the purple backdrop explodes into streams of emptiness, empty play. My chest has burst open and there are bits of heart all over the sand, as I laugh lovingly at the immensity of it all; the roots growing down, the branches up and across, far-far, so as they shelter whatever might come by that is in need of shelter.
There is the biggest grin, sitting away from the body as it rest and rests and rests, forever; for you will return, brother, to the earth - to the ether - to the sea; both you and me, whatever that construct of ours actually means. Big smile, sir. This is our ride; our breadth. Ride well into the forest and there you will rise again; rise, rise again. Birth yourself. Baptise yourself. Breathe in what you are, every moment. Go inside and when you come out again, come out. BURST!
A man explaining anything from his heart is worth a listen, be it a stream of guesses, a web of lies or an infinite sea of wisdom. The latter, see, is inextricable from the mode mentioned. It bleeds the reddest, ever, of all things.
Lean over the edge of the ship, sailor - though I know you're a pirate - and let all that rum come up, let all that fight take flight and succumb to the necro-mantic antic of the cosmic machinery, smoother and finer than any blade you've ever made, ever wielded; any body you ever every shielded. As a rainbow's arc it shoots down, into the dark blue sea, that great reflector of you and me - shadowy and infinitely deep, as all those who have lived know.
And as the rum comes up, the memories flow back; but they are not memories, they are this, this empty space that allows notes of music to erupt over it, words to spray themselves like earth all over the finest sheets of paper you've ever seen. You are it, sailor. You are the thing that loves.
Borne of the roots of endless time, endless space and the pace-by-pace of divine rhythm, a divine race.