On a certain occasion a bundle of possibilities spread out. scenes appeared in what seemed to be something that we did, a long time ago or just a second before.
Maybe it is about me,
and probably about you,
and what about that thought that
a wish is real.
Is it blue and some times mellow, when yellow is the color of the inside and white is the outside.
If it was false then, and the white, the pure and the sacred is barely even a remain.
Who cares about that thought.
If you think it’s purely an image dissolving like dry ice. first pushing humid air and sizzling like a grilled duck. the smell, the eatable flowers and the noise it made before it passed and left the earth to leap into my mouth. Chewing - smells like oil, rubbing - going down like aloe vera, healing from the inside, over the hair of my arms, just barely touching, as if a small breeze is enough when in fact it’s even less than that.