amebaone

Fiery yellows, sweet peaches, warm roses and memories. . not yet created.                   The sky drips into infinite little pools of fire and afternoon between here and the glossy surface of tomorrow. .  .            The grays and purples spill into thin air and disappear just before the stubborn halo of dreams right above the jagged horizon . .                                                         . . . .  . . and then. . . . . intense watermelon pink. . . . .                         . . .  the night slowly devours the cotton candy sky. .                                        . . . . leaving a watermelon sugar trace in m

A funky black death stink of a throat itch and painful slow swallow with each achy breath after another. A weakness all through my interior slowly moving upwards and outwards. .mercylessly fighting to make me collapse inwards . . . . . . . . but I won't.

I just feel like boogying. . and I don't do that. I feel like getting my drink on and singing along to some silly catchy song.   I feel like hopping into my car and driving far far far away. . . . . . where sun shines and the colors are pretty. . . . while I drink  and sing along to a silly catchy song. . .and laugh. I feel like letting go of bullshit and grabbing onto dreams. . especially those nuh-uh-get-out-of-here kind.. . that you usually want to fall back asleep to to see what happens next. I feel like old t-shirts and bare feet. . . . salty air, and seashells. . . . . ...silly music. . . and a drink. I just feel like boogying. .