vivaennui

In this fashion of oppression we fly, backwards, like a frozen page stuck to the ground sticking like fingers, the wind has at its last grasp. Up against the mirrors we dress and act like we ride on attractive gleaming rails, a perpetual side story of confusion. Crawling with our eyes, sliding scale tipped, making someone think its monument is indeed the larger picture. Balanced, we'd think of monuments no more. Not in their glory, not bathed in importance by setting fire to the horizons. We're not here to marvel at things, and make them more important than we. Faucets drip un-natural thoughts, recycled situations, recycled saliva. First, we shook the clear dew, molding droplets from our skin. Now many social lacerations swept us from within. Clear dew, no longer present. Grease and oil took to us, the machines. We go on gleaming rails, we go on crawling eyes, we go until, we're gone.