After ski and the reality of snow

by christycelia

Written at least three times before this point in the near closing night, I still have to confirm the exact date: February 22nd. Filtering so much through my mind has absolutely taken a hold of my energy levels, as I feed on the waves of the air which encircle me.  The peeking sun is savored like my once a month [week] [day] Lindor Truffle, bought for me by a pulsing little affair. He has been my forward thinking, my release from rigidity, deviations from and imitations of backwards design [somewhere felt before?]. My pen has run out. Pens cannot last forever, very little can. One man has constructed an emblem of the future, larger than any of us (as most of the future tends to be) which is made of rocks that at a certain moment sometime will turn into one another, a result of the ticking clock. Perhaps the sun will eat them first, but they are schedules to converse on the intertwining of things a year incomprehensible.

Now comes bodies. Who are we to perform the task of these time machine rocks. The ability to stay two solids while pressing harder towards the center is to live for, more than the machine at attractions which turns pennies into the Our Father and the Great White Tiger.

We cannot press so hard as crank and copper, so feeling inklings of thoughts fall upon the tongues held out to catch them will take the sidecar.

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