Kindling.

Click clack keyboards take the lead as the pillowed purple is couched upon the bed.  Roars of crowds, strangers unknown to the world as the building is unhinged, green is helping out as the shrill repeats itself.  A mirthless chuckle escapes as they have seen a lot tonight.  The darkness swallows the hunger as famished souls crave the thrill of curry.  The fourth quarter is dropped as the ball is given up.  Sounds of the environment swirl around as thoughts are incapable of being drawn out, only the sounds of the other, sounds unwanted and undesired, sounds that are not of my own mind, but of my surroundings.  The question of what I am doing is something that I don’t have the answer to all the time, as a lack of marbles is squawked about in the room.  The warmth of the bed is comforting as the bead of sweet is coming down upon the forehead, forever forgotten by the skin as the air receives it. The falcon, the crack, the snippets of life’s thoughts and actualities are refreshingly mundane.  A soreness in the left forearm dissipates, as with all things, as time draws on.  Time is simply an excuse to excuse the tardiness of the world’s expectations, expecting to excuse the lack of excuses that expect forgiveness.  And so the world spins around, time in one hand, space in the other as the ball rolls onto into the oblivion of infinite infinity, chorus sounding as the kingdom presses on, willing to reveal itself to the mindless and the mindful, the thirsty and the ones who have no thirst, for they are slaked in the present age.  Ages of people across the world await the anticipated amelioration of life as they know it, yet they willingly gaze into the eyes of death, forlorn souls without reason or breadth of knowledge, yet speaking with the wisdom of pastures.  The river runs on, unknowingly drenching the passionate with sorrow.

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