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The late night commute from the satellites thru the nexus and out the other side to a new suburb. Many miles moving beneath the wheels supporting the traveling on axels across the frozen north, beyond the secret parallels, and into the insolated streets. A fake paris is lit by the heavenly neon, and the glow of hope. Survival in the days was based on dreams and self-made promises.
The coffee is brewed early and the day has yet to open, still we wait for the earth to start the spin the darkness into light. The drink is bitter, but it was prepared to be such. The day sits, the paths thru the hours have already been laid, the movements have been made, not in advance, but remain as they have always been. The moment is sacred, now is the time.
Left to my own thoughts I am poor in my concentration. Random push in any direction will obviously move me forward, but almost always in the wrong direction. The shadows of memories lead into thoughts, words, movements, and these dreams come alive before my eyes. The formations, solidify, drift in the ether, and evaporate when touched. Simple reality melts the castles of the dream kingdom. It was either a simple flash, a synaptic misfire, or bad batch of ones and zeros. The information can not be trusted. The data is corrupted. It is this forum that he world takes shape. The foundations of all things is based on nothing. At the smallest level the rules are chaotic, and changing. There is no start, no end, everything exists as it has, as it always will be.
Growing up in the degrading suburbs of the cowboy city gave us all a look into passive transgressions of our lost morals and values of our founders. Lost in the labyrinth of twisting roads and confused centers we see darkness settling on the horizon, it’s the end of childhood, brought in to weird setting thru a baptism of horror. There was a full on feeling of newness… and it was found on the open road. The luck of the highway is long and hard, and moves at a snails pace that explodes into a communication of strange fictions and unintended social graces. In this world we are lost in the verbal expression of who you wanted to be. Identity is nothing but a ticket to the next stop, after that stop perhaps a reprieve while the cars passed, but with the next pick up it starts over.