The traffic is back, the pollution is back. A thick, heavy Sunday, grayness covering the eyesight like a dirty cloth choking the face, distress, a plight and a null-space. Aerial foam, froth. Pulling curtains over my home to hide its secrets and cement, to erase the trace. Oxygen’s ferment. The spectral images of the streets at noon parodying crepuscular ambiguity, doubting their neon twilight, when all kites had to flee. The mind a radar plowing a smoky, gloomy territory. Unwashable air draping all bodies, no longer aware, stagnant muddy ponds for sly skies and beyond these. Depth of nothingness. Nebulosity to harness a perspective we may not outlive.
The land of the amorphous. The building lost in formlessness. The indefinite as an address. This is where I kneel, slumbering in the vapors of grit, Morpheus.
Blind as we are, sleepily walking through an imprecise urbanity, we stretch a hand to caress again the spongy velvety fabric of the atmosphere. A large smear for a physique. Holding between our fingers the monochrome flow of people’s breath. Ghosts cycling in uttermost smog, land of the concrete exhaling its fumes. Not a fog, but a syndrome. As ethereal weight resumes. And I look for myself as I would look for escape, a retreat, the mortar and the gravel in a dull trance, all citizens merging into adulterated monotonies, not a chance, as unrecoverable from the landscape as they are from memories.
I look for myself, my shape consigned to oblivion in the mass of visible gas, a heartbeat heard in this accretion of floating sediments, the world as an impasse, drifting pigments, a sound which I cannot retrieve, dissolving itself in the depth of blankness. The eye showing incomprehension. Dust’s invasion. Each step I take suspended in the scary tenderness of a brownish haze. A specter as lover, devilish captor, embracing all of one’s pores. Unfazed. Concealing one’s isolation even more. A time to evanesce. A veil of dense molecules to disorientate. Scents of fuel. The semi-solid featurelessness of the air as a self-portrait, the eyelid covering the globe. So to enrobe the mess and the crime of grime. Or a simple sad eye for a silent sigh, the city's wimple as a key ornament, comrade.
Laolao
The land of the amorphous. The building lost in formlessness. The indefinite as an address. This is where I kneel, slumbering in the vapors of grit, Morpheus.
Blind as we are, sleepily walking through an imprecise urbanity, we stretch a hand to caress again the spongy velvety fabric of the atmosphere. A large smear for a physique. Holding between our fingers the monochrome flow of people’s breath. Ghosts cycling in uttermost smog, land of the concrete exhaling its fumes. Not a fog, but a syndrome. As ethereal weight resumes. And I look for myself as I would look for escape, a retreat, the mortar and the gravel in a dull trance, all citizens merging into adulterated monotonies, not a chance, as unrecoverable from the landscape as they are from memories.
I look for myself, my shape consigned to oblivion in the mass of visible gas, a heartbeat heard in this accretion of floating sediments, the world as an impasse, drifting pigments, a sound which I cannot retrieve, dissolving itself in the depth of blankness. The eye showing incomprehension. Dust’s invasion. Each step I take suspended in the scary tenderness of a brownish haze. A specter as lover, devilish captor, embracing all of one’s pores. Unfazed. Concealing one’s isolation even more. A time to evanesce. A veil of dense molecules to disorientate. Scents of fuel. The semi-solid featurelessness of the air as a self-portrait, the eyelid covering the globe. So to enrobe the mess and the crime of grime. Or a simple sad eye for a silent sigh, the city's wimple as a key ornament, comrade.
Laolao
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