Time made solid and thrown out of context. Electricity running through wood like termites. Voices saying the same thing in different countries and opposite things in the same room. Multi-vocal non-syllabic turmoil. A feeling where the heart usually is but isn't today. The heart's stand-in speaking clearly, then falling loudly into an orchestra pit. The feeling is universally mutual: ambiguity clear as imaginary mud. Forming itself as the tape rolls down a hill. Several people wait under identical lamposts on opposite ends of town. They must have met in childhood. Or died together in childbirth. Expressing their confusion in unison. Everytime we look in the sky the moon's in the same place. Meeting our gazes like a teenager with trembling palms. Time just passed, but it's still still. Still carving a path through the rock. Still tapping a string with a hammer, making inaudible vibrations that shake you gently. That pull this part of the continent back into the water. It doesn't have to pull we would have gone willingly. We can see from here how whole it is, how clear. To the spot we assume the heart still is, we return. The watery hills groan under our wheelbarrows. Hauling our renewed expectations from a considerable distance. The squalor of our thoughts finally lifted by what we assume to be love. Singing together, finally.
Wild Eyed Friend
The Hills Have Hides
The Doom Song
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