The Story So Far

Silly, lonesome, meandering loops of lust and love - lethargically scanning samples, chords, melodies, revisiting fireflies and fields, perilous trecks accross the wastelands with frost burned boots full of blood, hope lies on the western sky and old friends sleep on the eastern shores, holographic phantoms of the mind scrape the edges of the skull and we realize our dreams in a puff of dandilion seeds, dozing off on the grass staircase of god, metropolossi melt and waver behind our heads - a projection inches above the horizon, an inside joke, a disgustingly palpable actualization that manifests every morning but only when you can bear to recall it, a dusty drone loops in the mind while standing in the middle of the freeway at night, staring down the 16 wheelers honorably bearing graffitti from distant cities, our memories refuse to release us from our very own secret play penned by the mind at a young age, children, playing terminator in the swamps and marshes near freshwater springs, crippling beauty, the lifeforce of the planet bubbling up, a hidden scrap of notebook paper with a communique from these hypnagogic hyper-text reveries: meta-information in a new vista where your old tricks are useless to blaze the new trail; go now, for there are new source codes to count and new dreams to dream to figure out that exact thing that certain feeling you get sometimes when you are exactly where you need to be and destiny is a sustaining rain upon your forehead and you need only remember how to get back to that blurry-red forest where it’s always raining and there is enough silence to think, to really think, but alas the moon sets, the batteries run dry, and a cold, dreamless sleep overcomes…

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