paperclown
let's do the cliché and stick a knife in an electricity socket. we'll see god, mama, papa, and baby Rex. it would higher than any acid trip, higher than any kite...
miming the secrets, packing them into shadows, and sealing them with jade and gold - you are.
ebbing flow of time, you are far, and then you are near. we float on the tides that come, high and low, two missing persons, all alone, together, awash...
pretty dears, their long wide skirts, sweeping in, sweeping out, three dainty steps, and the music that plays; the little sparrows' waltz.