Perceived Lapse of Continuity

The cigarette hangs loosely from My dry lips like a man whose sentence was just carried out. The rope is cut, letting gravity have it's way. Gray ash clings to the black shirt, because deep down nothing truly wants to die. My head rests zen like against the white (soon to be yellow) wall while the vibrations from within and outside this structure meet. Perfect resonance. An introspective view of the exterior: My essence stands over My shoulder to gain new perspective, It instructs Me to rid My shirt of the cigarette ash in a cool manner. Like James Dean probably would. A single bulb fights to permeate the low hanging and quickly growing cloud as if we're reaching deep sea levels of thought. Too soon the struggle for steady breath forces a window open. The pool above us drains, only to be rapidly filled again as if summer ended and then resumed immediately. A neon grip takes hold of consumption by the throat until it's lungs burn without emitting light. An assembly of sultans(Satans?) semi-circle seated in Indian style, of both posture and methods of ritual, in a room perfectly sized to "contain" or harbor a soul. The center of the universe is a second story flat. Perfect resonance found in the later hours, we're left baying at the moon.