We live in colors, cities, callings, names, Los Angeles. We justify our textures, give them architecture, heritage, skin. You sit on a chair on an edge, drinking coffee, and there's a freeway below. Can you tell which movie you're in? Are you in a matrix? There are constitutions to obey, regulations, boundaries. Boundaries in indecision are necessary. The sun always shines. Endings only happen when the movie credits are rolling like unreadable text, dead scrolls, vague scribbles without history.
We've been reading between the lines. We believe the invisible will take us somewhere. Be careful, a crevice, a hole, a whole. Sure, a soul, as well. Listen to the rustlings, of leaves, palm leaves. Our civilization is set on tropical mode, invasive blue skies, margarita resorts, salty cabanas. The veins of serendipity is never tired. We'll scuba into our neon hearts. If you leave me, I will find you, through the eye of the storm.
Petals bloom into flowers, time, incantations. There are renewals, reversals, reprisals, re-dedications. Things huddle into gatherings for something bright, new conditions, probabilities. Elements cling, leave, disperse to intentions, destinations. Revolutions are plotted, rejected, re-imagined. When flowers don't bloom, they want to bloom, engage the world, its green, pollutions, populations, disintegrations. There is music in the air, grace-notes inundate filtered ears.