At the intersection of light and abstract thought, where old postcards crawl unwillingly, fleeting whispers encircle the moonlike thoughts of clubfooted shadows.
Time travelers noted, without hesitation, that bananas sing.
Click here to unlock the forgotten dream...I knitted my own eyelids for the pilgrimage this morning; the clock tripped over itself. Encounters of the third liquid kind, fertile beanstalks peeling bacon underneath the light of a tampered star.
What will you offer the wind? The punctured earnestness of a fallen leaf? A red dream stitched effortlessly between the mains and biosphere?
Beckon the azure hounds from the burnt village; they yearn for coastline cola.
Explore further into parts unknown...