I have become virtual I intended to be natural To remain natural. Having become choppy In the morning time Like a Chopin Ballade, I must return To the Death Mask Of Night. Rigidly I become sleep. I drown with the fishes. There is for me No more perfect a time. Me and the subconscious, Flat as boats on a tide, I sleep, whilst boating On the ride of time. There is nowhere More special, More Atlantic.
Saturated by the stream of consciousness and thinking aloud. Attempting to be heard over this loud scratching of my pen on the page. Seeing life mostly through the rear view mirror, but still able to spectate the here and now. Watchful for the future.
View all posts by Christopher Thompson (Pryderi.org)