a sad soul listens to the rain pattering against the door. the litany of the shrieking wind carries a melody of hate and knock out any trail of thoughts, while wood works and walls protest with catatonic pertinence that match the mellow stillness of this loner whose eyes ache under the strain of warm hopes and brilliant mental exploits, sailing to perdition. open sea: the body of water cavorts with the seething lust of the gale, they turn and twist in vertiginous pitches, their heaving collapses in droning rumbles, excreting white horses running afoul towards the pristine shore of a land hunched in a frozen woe. in all its exaltation, the sea emerges as the deeply furrowed face of an elderly man, in pain and struggling to breath, smothered as he is in the foggy gray curtain of an unkempt beard, while hours or seconds pass by in an eerie limbo that is deafening in its all-encompassing silence. the individual opens the door, his cries bring no tears, his shouts...
when the earthcrust churns, bounces and heaves, whilst a murder of crows gyrate as dead weight from the brumous heavens, spreading their poison of black omens, and the farmer dines on his wife's ashes watched by the senile eye of the hooded sun, the mute hours limp in tune with the yelping dirge of soused wraiths wheedling the aggravated billows to unleash their voltaic outrage, a figure forges ahead with nimble skill across seracs and moraines formed from man's repertoire of prosaic enterprises nullified. wary of loquacious hierophants promising opulent vales and sordid potlachs sprinkling trinkets of convenience to the comatose drove as they wriggle in flat resignation inside the labyrinth of their own dun-hued, stale abdomen, the wayward wanderer tersely censurs a dying world's lore from his ocean deep soul and takes in the beech's cool shade the little death in a loving embrace. engulfe...
they walk in the morning with hunched bodies in thin supermarket cloths, barely in control of their shivers; their heads full of waning delirium. the frosty air makes them edgy, their movements are floundering, like a broken record idly wheeling past the production of any sound. their blunt eyes and sordid smiles hint on dead souls stamped with the rictus of idiocy. the glory of dawn ignites and shames the waste of consumerist barracks and temples of intoxication, while weeds between cracks, spilled leaves victim to seasonal tides and guardians of lanes revel in melancholic dignity before the bustling writhing traffic sinks them back in the clouded background. now they loiter in rank smut corners of subways, pentices and against lamp posts, at home in wafts of acrid urine, bakkeries of vomit and stacks of variegated dumping, their dialogues unfold in a series of grunts, monosyllables and shouts, interspersed with hoarse laughter. they glean the world with muted...
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