The colour of a something you don’t see

It could be worse. The phone could never ring again. No one ever speaks with you again. Only messages from corporations. Only some grey box for your face. Or just colleagues saying things at you. 
No more friends. 
Although sometimes you can find some fellow something there.

Picking up on it. The death knell. 
The sound of a beginning 
doesn’t ring in the same way.

Looking at yourself 
like as if there’s levels. 
Through the prism of your prism.

Truth is a thing. When you’re hearing less.

Ghost of a chance, as my brother says.

Daphne looks up. 
Her thread is dangling. 
You go over to her. 
She does not see you. 
Same as it ever was, says some song.

You were standing there. 
I was making movements with my hands. 
That made things a little better. 
Made it more 
in the center 
of the atmosphere.

I was feeling it. 
I was thinking, if I’m feeling it, 
then surely it is coming out my fingers.

But Bobby was surprising me again. 
It was a distraction. 
Trying to make balance.

If you say it is, 
I will go, 
at least feeling I was here 
for a reason. 
Though it doesn’t matter to you if I was.

For two thousand years they have practiced making it more difficult. More for less than more. Where did it all start? In the basement or the sandbox?

It is a communion. 
Squiggles carry spirit.

Don’t pretend you do not know it,
what that is. 
Truly. All the straight lines have been drawn before.

Dorothy forgives us. 
The champion is on line. Gravy train. 
Ghost in the machinations. 
The subconscious is the real conscious.

Random not so random.

If you let it take you there, the next day will look different. 
Feeling.

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