del dot v

he tastes like earthsalt and old smoke. potentials swirl under the flat of my tongue, collecting in his shallows, eclipsing one another and folding back onto themselves. turbulence is the secret to our universe, and we will never understand it. statistics can always point out its shadow, but the true bluedeep beauty of its motions is goverened by whatever governs us in turn. who's to say fluid elements don't have feelings themselves? maybe they migrate like salmon, maybe they're out on a mission to change their flat tire, maybe they're searching for an old lover. maybe, in another second in the 4th dimension, our world dictates the turbulence; all of us, pushing fluid elements, like neurons kissing and dancing in the golden hour. his turbulence tastes sweet, wispy... but earthy. a natural sugar. the world serves up delicious banquets to those who seek them.

quiet

baited breath. the universe breathes for you. the sun steps gently walking by. .. ... . blood thrums too loud. should be still. laminar.


.. there's not much to do.


blinking crashes cymbals . ..



. one day your perfectionism will catch up with you.

2nd person

you whet your lips, nervously, nerotically. eyes flicking to the clock, worrying at the insides of your mouth with teeth sharpened by your own hand. a bead of sweat runs down the bridge of your nose, a long languid pull off a cigarette and you as the smoke trapped in its lungs. how long have you been waiting? it feels like an eternity. there isn't a window to see, no spot to even grasp a glimpse of your own reflection. how long have you aged? and yet the clock ticks on, marching into the distance as the gunfire of your neurons blooms inside your head, two soldiers in your own fields.