Arms abreast, with elbows locked to flex a bend, time stretches out with a creak into the tanning of the midday sun. Wayward in effort, trails around the tiles of the city leaves little markers of disgust and angst. A result merely borne from the presence of other disturbing ions. All surrounding each other, the lack of military enthusiasm converts the strain into a lacklustre buffer across the melamine table top.
Gone is thought, now behind is rigor mortis, vacant cast from beyond the lenses and it's a shuffling affair between the feet and synapses. Lock it up and drown out the noise, there's nothing to see here other than detachment from the cold and hot.
Soon Van - Wednesday, January 24, 2007 - 21:52
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