In this place there is a vibration. A current that streams the song I most feel right for the hearing of. I open my mouth, letting my jaw slip through the clouds. An ingestion of digestion, a sucking up of the sand.
Vapor escapes through the eyes of the Irl.
There is one wave. A person can only be in one place at a time. The past is a clunky brick. Soul power fuels a train engine I hear filling the room with the steam of my breath.
Upon the ground I see my face ashake in tremors. I know this place, the memory thereof.
The power of November. A mobius strip. The head that won't shut up. A riotous procession trampling the dreams of the dead.