Kurrs' Digital Tapestry of Words

Eerie reminders of things not long past. Phone calls probably more frequently received by plum girls than dreadlocked boys take me away from my moment of solitude. Replaced now by a heaving, pumping, machine of internal combustion, I find myself once again in strange smelling halls. Like... embalming fluid, some modern grotesquerie of Egyptian death cults replaced by the cold science of Apollo’s creed, and I'm not talking about Rocky.

Step by step, walking through halls, along wind and rain swept streets, gay waiters and ethical death, then back again. Am I walking through life, memory, or a dream? Or is it some surreal combination of all three? Exhaustion, lack of food, and a strange lack of stress. Most burdens removed, with small ones or ones unnoticed struggling to the surface like bubbles in viscous liquid.

Written On: Home Computer