Code Read

I thought you were speaking about a code readily stuffing your news and stopping the consonant comments spoken through your cold red nose. I sniffed in dig nation coolness, playing the role of the dice the action channeled as it served up unsuspected waves to roll me tumbled down, but not out, into my situational straights. It was a cool splash, back in the day. (Imagination surfed the webs and gathered the dust of errant dreams.) Looking up, I felt somewhat akin to an all wet wash of walls in my (soon to be) asylum and held the breath of my wide open container to be more than a simple taste of fresh heir, for it includes the residue change of history’s toll, ringing in my respiratory options like a box and pouring from the circumferent wrap like breathing underwater. More oxygen? I set my sight to seat my resident self sound and safe above the silent noise of pollution, aimed for productive battle against the offending substants, looked into what armamentalities I might consider, girdled my intentions with weapons of mess destruction and stepped boldly forth into an inept attempt to alter the intended application of tools and materials, clumsy awkward. It seemed that the available technologies were less than satisfactory (factory guaranteed) compared to the grunt and swipe of a brush from a bucket, so I trading them for the basics and gave strong armed efforts to sponging off the offending environment in a two foot wide swath, up and down, repeated until the surrounding wall surface was balanced in a molecularly measured increase of proposed living space, cleaner for the tasking. Cheers.
My day carried on and brought me here, to hear your tired eyes read red right along with my wearied hands. Hold that thought, but gently, and let this somnambulist night walk the path into its own dream. Carry yawn, my wayward sun.

0849 crop hf1 x2 q2

Advertisements