Words trampled and crushed into little packets of self contained messages colonialized like small islands off the coast. How did it ever get to this, warped boats over treacherous waters carrying the cargo of ‘boxed-up-meanings’ leaking into the vast unknown seas. It is here we attempt to understand each other with a soul full of emptiness and a heart forsaken across discontented distant waters and a sincerity to reach into each others arms, sabotaged.
The drifter walks ahead already looking back at the silent coast and the ones so dearly loved. With the scrap heap of the west on our heals and the parade of saints playing in pools of nymphs and pirates and such, who could have ever guessed we were end-bound. What used to survive desolate in the alley ways of the metropolis we now find in remote villages across the globe. Like an unstoppable disease of the heart spreading like thought waves doomed by its own desires, humanity crawls along alone. There is no way out for it, only more illusions to soothe its fateful appetite, and as the drifter always says from his cool twisted damp lips, “choose careful, beware, everything fades towards the end of time”. And with that said the ships unload, the docks disperse, the constant pounding of the drums continue along the avenues and into the endless winds of dream, things come and go.
Image circa 80’s two slides sandwiched into one…writing yesterday