The Language Is Changing

a president feeling of bliss with the grip of well worn shoes looking almost brand new electrified to go. and instant effect, like the best cocaine, or a more literal approach, caffeine. a rippling pulse, from a more mechanical dream, fuelling dreams and growing pots of love in handbags stowed away for next season. things are changing, evidently, and we cant help but claw at the glimpses of strangers passing us by on busy streets for their minds contain fragments of us, fragments and pixels and tiny actualities that on any given Sunday, you would steal back. planning an attack, but suddenly out of whack, you let the strangers wander into crowds of blurred faces because they will forever remember you, better then you will ever remember yourself because the language is changing, just like the seasons, this you doesn't last under the falling leaves of autumn and your bones would merely break if seduced into old winters clutching calloused grip, and the rain washes you out each and every spring but with perfect measure so you can become a tidied hot mess for the summer sun, so it can cast a different shade of love on your clothes and allow a new peep hole for your soul to blossom at untimely places for all the wrong people.