It's a dangerous game, foreseeing the future;
it's almost always never true. To think that life is a product of fate is to be tremendously fooled. It's a dangerous game, foreseeing the future; it's almost always never true. If you have to believe in something, Believe in you.
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The sky is closer in Edinburgh
than anywhere else in the world. Clouds crowd ‘round in riots, Fickly dripping with rain and then Drying up, raisin-like. Pigeons and gulls weave around Bridges and hills In chaotic feathered packs, Cooing and squawking In absurd bird anguish. In secret, slippery nooks, Supernatural spirits whisper and linger Under dim-lit, age-old, stony stairs. The closeness of the sky breeds Infinite life and eternal death, Indistinguishable in the Ghastly, great greyness Consuming the city. And so continues our flight of fancy
Feigned romance elated dancing Waltzing under rose-tinted spotlight tock the clocks but time is not right twist and swing like metronomes beat slows down and even though disaccord and inconvenience plague this ghostly white dream sequence concrete confines couldn’t stop me for the beat and you still rock me As I sit
statuesque on an express train, a funereal procession of my childhood, decaying and no longer the rich, deep foliage it once was, flickers by. It exists in a separate dimension, an altogether different plane of space and time, where action figures and candies hold a certain majestic and nostalgic quality. It is a retrograde pick-up truck parked stoically beneath the teal bleachers of a stadium; obsolete, its potent fumes of exhaust mingle with the plastic-looking clouds. It’s a crumbling billboard sign, advertising the flag of a country which exists only in human memory, its anthem being ricocheted off the stony, decrepit walls. It is the rippled reflection in a mud-ridden pond, distorted and moribund. It’s a craggy vertical collection of used broken cars, done in, dejected, peeling. It’s a secret grey bridge, locked forever in a forest, sporadically sat upon by picnickers and then promptly forgotten. A recurrent snapping turtle, garbage-bagged and disposed of time and time again in an infinite reservoir. An industrial village of sawdust and bottle caps, faded red bricks and graveyards passing like film behind the salt-speckled window. A white house goes by, and I can breathe again. |
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