The ultra thing deep in the darkness. The club therapy. The groove untold down in the farthest corner of your harsh inferior speakers. The cry in the walls. The VIP that never makes it towards his front door. The book without judgment from having no leather bound, hand sown spine. The melody with the tickle along my fingers, as it touch’s out in the depths of your imprint. Someone else’s vision of unwrapping tiresome imagery through mind-numbing moments during time. My consideration that they could still be. Your notion that they still will be. The sweat as it slowly move’s within long exposures down the back wall. A twist and turn. Hollow motions. A finger and thumb. A kick up the bum. Appearance through darkness. Garlic and glittering lights. Dent’s through my ill apparitions. Time without an irreversible subject. Your index without his contents. My stamp in your grandmother’s dead father’s bedside reading. That glimmer in your eye. That knife being wrenched from your associates back. Sorrowful targets sucking secretly outside you. Under the rule of thumb. Transient time. The archangel doing the foxtrot around the olive tree. Over and over. The devil about the backyard. The phantasm of you. The self-control visiting the symbol. Your twitch in my left eye lid. The uncontrollable support. My discharging vein. My compounded clone. The selection with no more.

My club therapy as the lights Flickr…

Just Somebody. Some day....