My time is frozen, and I am in time. The time rests in a moment which spans the boundaries of a unfaded memory. The horizon is a twilight of yellow light. The yellow mercury bulbs, which shopkeepers have put on to attract the customers. The people pace without no faces outside their shops. Shopkeepers hope in the yellow light of mercury bulbs; the faceless are customers who will buy time from them.
I wanted to be in the white light of tube lights - the omnipresent white florescent light which would jealous the Fire Fly. The light in which you and I will laugh the eternal laughter of Mozart.
I wanted to feel the yellow light on my face. I wanted to touch the horizon; hear the yellow laugh of the yellow star. I am blinded and now the horizon is there, and I am there, but the earth and the sky do not meet here anymore.
2 comments:
"my time is a piece of wax falling on a termite that chocking on a splinter"
- Beck loser
it seems to me that this post is really personal. i just dont get it.
i imagine a lonely vince in boxers and sweaty tank top sitting on he side of his bed, naked clamy feet planted on a faux wood floor, staring out to a sunset stained window down unto a shop wall glowing with orange fluorescence casting its playful light on the weary faces of immigrant shop keepers bound to the monotony of steadily declining buisiness, and thinking, vince, to himself, that a groggy evening would be better spent sunk nose deep in books at the university library than half sleeping half thinking about his own fate and purpose.
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