Endocrines, there are daily remedies for any kind of lucid and synchronized indifference, play by the rules, the thing says. It is really no different than the average standard of chemical enlightenment, where as the beautiful star string is warped in awkward combination, this organism pipes through any orderliness and scouts for the desire and enchantment that has been left behind in crystal form.

Yes, It digs months out until something emerges. Usually the matter unearthed is stereo light years in the past, but still present.

It is the visual affirmation of what can be lost in time. Stressed to its own possible leap, the product comes through a wormhole, unhinged, un-attached to its metaphorical doorway.
Zeben Perhaps
Where that leads is always left to you, the interpreter. The imaginary timekeeper you wish to be...

The caterpillar in some sense, inching through its world achieving simple things, one at a time until the cocoon is finally found around it, where it can leave its old transport of the world behind and further fly up into an atmosphere all new to it.

(A splitting headache... The eruption of the stampede upon eight am orphic lilies. The irregulations of breath and the whispers surrounding you...)

I would jam a tape into the recording console but there are less and less things that can be sustained off of old dead batteries.

The table turns and turns, fast in front of you, to let you in on some other story of dozens of unfamiliar things you will not recognize, they do not register.

I hear a thousand creeks from here beneath a willow tree. The blankets are soft, they comfort me from a cold spattering of wind and water that ceases when I smile and lurches toward me when I laugh.

I cannot tell how many times I've tried to smile forever and laugh under here. Buildings continue to crumble around me. There is a forest behind my house that continues to wage war on our cities. It begins in North America and moving slowly, it directly affects South America, upper Alaska, Canada (all of Canada) and has some how figured out its way into the bottom of the ocean.

Its probably inching along under there, headed toward the biggest and oldest city ever made by human hands.

A quest for fresh air has been taken. First in my hand, angled vertical through stream after stream, my fingers search the tiled stone.

They say there is the stretched image of bird beaks on it.

In turn, after finding what I thought might be it, the forest began its slow journey; sideways and long ways, downward and all-ways.

I would wade knee deep, clutching the stone with the birds beaks, scratched upon its side and whisper strange songs that I have never heard.

The tiger willow would become my resting place from now on.

From there I could see the forests beautiful destruction unharmed.

Internal exercise for the year.

A new sacrifice would be made.

Electricity, agriculture, technology, that was all going down.

Already my willow tree was an amazing sanctuary from all that pollution and turmoil that plagues the electronic, the plastic coated world that manifests its own death in the end.
My Home Park Got Turned Upside Down