We waited for these mindless dreams, these soviet dressings. There was a place for that. These districts do not cause the fear that must keep my motive sincere. These dripping peons take their shelter and fall ill by the wide-open skies, trials of farce and delightful old-world purchases. They do not matter. Surely there is a space for their cause, and within that I suppose I can leave them to rest. Otherwise they are a simple avant-garde detail, a sort of space reserved for the disastrous molecule that destroyed us all.
These shapes do not belong to the pipe. Somewhere within the smoke I find the simple persuasion that acts before me, like a confusing farce that mean nothing and sounds like a critique of society. These are the acts of gibberish, there in the fields; these are the acts of Jabberwocky. Thankfully there is only one owl left in the side of the farce. This owl knew both the Hippo and the Frog. There was no settled case, nor wine and cheese gala for any of these people. I hope somewhere that the letter was sent in time, but I am not with these people. The species divide belongs to the creation of a matter that cannot be destroyed. Within the city walls I fall, ailed by the comfort and aided by my lust for life.
I am not reasonable enough to decide for these creatures, even though they have asked me. Somewhere there is a natural reaction that is deemed proper by the real me, deep inside my subconscious where the light reaches more brightly and shines in my insomnia like a dear push towards the end of the maze. It is difficult within this sort of labyrinth, as the mindless causeways and overturned chests I discover do not lead me to any for of fashionable decision, nor any sort of reasonable chaos.
The Frog is named something, but all his words sound the same to me. It is hard to tell what I am to receive, within these caverns and dreams that curse my supposed fate. The Hippo is a silent moniker, and within these portioned lands he sullenly waits for the drip to cease. When the water is gone, he will leave as well – to find a mindless soup, to learn more about the world. When we wait for the dream, I conclude that there is only one spot left for me to sop up with a spoon and sponge. They do call me spoon-lid. I am not sure why. It may be the chaos that comes with these people, a righteous spot at a crooked corner, where the silence deafens the righteous and the cursed belong like sheep.
The walls around the labyrinth were sculpted like winged creatures that it could never hold, said to be there in order to keep the Hippo and Frog within the letterbox that held their vision so they never saw the world. This sort of distraction was the sort that needed a great hero to free them from their portions of the maze. This has not yet come, and the release from their Perdition is not what this document is discussing. The crime is that even with their immense destruction these torrents of rain and destructive winds caused by deafening courses of action worlds away harm nobody. We are left with a simple photo album and courses made for their eventual demonstration.
There is a pause here for the victims. A silence sounds like distracted thoughts and those who are subtle and dreaming like the doomed peon sent from the designer of the maze to carelessly fill three rooms with mud. Neither captive seemed to mind, yet somewhere within the causeways and overpasses the desire still skulked, worried for their patience, as it seemed it was beginning to run out. There was nothing for us – the idle watchers of these happenings. We were free to leave if we wish.
There was a place for the thoughts and cultures letting me bring farce towards them. I have these structures in my mind, and may be unable to cause the sensations in the readers mind to relate their severity. I suppose there are no wards that matter anymore; neither side needs to belong to this or the oppressed. There is a massive stone left to remark that these partitions must belong to the faces of drifting flights and this tomb made from sparks and water. This is the magic of nonsense, and for that matter the massive tome that you are approaching slowly on the superhighway of information.
As such, I have written many positive and illogical things, which the passive existence can destroy with a simple swing of opinion. These letters we leave to be found by any soul that needs to breath fire and cause him pain to survive, these letters are their own morning. They are the shiny tweeters that I recalled in the previous state of mind.
I wonder why the space is needed. Shouldn’t I be causing a dream? Shouldn’t I be leaving this town in the crosses that I came with? There is a distraction here for the mindful. Winding crosses and trees and such, fences with blue gates and water running behind them. Human built streams and waterwheels for the festive spirit, sculptures and horses in the street. The galley has come to the shore, but has not moved in fifty years.
The Frog and that dreaming peon met at the boat in a fearful encounter. Neither side moved for fifteen minutes while staring in anticipation at the other. There was no chaos lighting their fear, just a sinful blast of turbulent cold and the dream that one of these two creatures would move. For their efforts, neither side has moved yet, and each camps outside the boat in a silent vigil for their brothers who have passed. The Hippo has remained happy in the mud, silent and unconcerned that he is in a maze.