I think,
Maybe
thinking is too,
Surreal for me,
floating out
of my head, deep,
in thought
I should get a
rush,
but,
it's just the,
dull breeze,
of another
word.
Dull, boring,
freak of nature;
normal, twisted,
act of God.

Shoes dissolve
doors crumble at their close
air is liquid in the palms
of River.
Why does God,
act in her pool.

Knocking on hardrive,
Carressing the
page;
Paper and prose feel,
real, least surreal,
in our arms.