Above fallen dreams lighting the stars to dream on, the herculean Athenian bends only when a child needs her.
What if every time an angel is stripped of its wings and responsibilities beside the throne of God, it falls violently to earth?
I took a pause,
let my toes feel the pebbles
and my hair gets lost in the breeze
It’s hard to find a quiet place in the city. It’s even harder to find grass and trees.
Harry Seville considered himself to be a postmodernist. Not postmodern like the postman who came to his house every morning with a white hat and headphones, but postmodern like Fitzgerald and his brain dogs. Every morning he arose before the non-postmodern postman and attacked eggs and toast with relish but without the hot dog condiment […]
I am an excellent braggart; ask any of my remaining friends.
As I dance through straw and dirt.
I know he will not hurt
me, he always stops.
I feel demons, man-sin,
Sitting, watching me
Atop cracked telephone poles.
William mourned for the past, and he forgot the present, and he put off the future indefinitely.
What better way to convey the infinite expanse and incomprehensibility of the universe than through music that seems to never end and that exceeds the very human capacity for understanding?