where your mind wants to go
It is winter. It is January. It is not a shrill morning but rather rheumatic. With whispers. Any kind. The whispers are expressing the type's wishes types sketched and tonified in the tint of sky's times. The time's matrix feels like a slice of a blue cheese with penetrating stench, making everything hide. It is difficult to see where your mind wants to go. So you look to nowhere, invoking mystic powers. In trying to get to you, I let a hypnotizing music play, hoping it'll find you, and you will send me a clue. It is winter. It is January. The radio waves cough. I'm still searching. Searching for a summer's sun. (summer's sun is you... winter's one is rheumatic)
