I love conveyer-belt people.
They remind me of the sky.
Blue sky summer, your joy twirls and swirls: why must you go away? You smile at my camera and embrace its eyes even when it dies.
Aesthetic, picturesque, beautiful – where did you get such nice words? Wait; they are dead. I can’t see anything. Language is dead.
You melt concrete into a freeform cacophony of euphemism, and now I smell the ashes. But concrete lacks ashes. You swirl and twirl and swirl and twirl; burn and learn and blaze.
And language is everything.
Ice cream only tastes sweet in the fire. Doesn’t it feel nice?
That’s one off the belt. But you get the point.
Grey skies; weeping skies; crimson skies; skies cackling in the wind. They’re above and below: there’s only so much dirt. More importantly, they’re made for us.
It’s like we get deadlocked into something that doesn’t exist.
I guess conveyer-belt people aren’t like the sky; I lied. The sky makes sense.