They say, only when freed shall the wings of your mind reveal their full colours.
I stick my head out, far enough for freedom to touch me. My head is the control pad over which her fingers can run to alter the composition of my microcosm. The truth then, quite pliable, is affirmed in the humming of machines, plotting and networking it amid mouths put where their money is. And against all predictions, my high tech den defies the law that says it must start falling into disrepair before its construction has commenced, and my assurance policies postpone their maturation day – the cut-off point beyond which I am said to become an element of the desert whose sand waves lack fluidity.
The skyline, despite being syncopated by the rectangular heads of the market, functions as the baseline to a poetic openness over this 'flourishing' metropolis. And here I am, encircling my seven-hour-plan within the wider circumference of ragged hills. As for plans, one has to make them even though the entirety of independent variables is never known. Take this as an example: these perversely unpredictable masses that carry me forward are liable to suffer distractions of their manufactured single-mindedness as often as the sky displaces its clouds with azure seductiveness. And yet I am subjected to a sense of progression - albeit blind, as are worms deep in the soil.
Given this then, why agonise over the ruthlessness of a stray asteroid marked to reclaim sleep on earth? Why cry over the ultimate coitus interruptus of spring's ultimate dream, over the simultaneous stop of wish-fulfilment production lines? For the time being, I can continue to biomorphically shape my pacemaker and render my message carriers a Vox Humana sound. And if revivals end up following the curve of their mirror version, what? I can still turn over my ‘now days’ and (this is not an advert) look through the gaps in the matrix: it means that the pink sphere above the blue level is the sun who owes extra brilliance to the white of the eyes and the teeth of your smiling children