buttressed by bisected nebulae our galaxies coalesce. soft-spoken Andromeda hurtling towards a somber Milky Way. a slow dance plays to the crooning toons of Brand New. am i experiencing Deja Entendu or are the Devil and God merely raging inside us?
Christmas lights, distant as parsecs, twinkle every which way we look. multicolor displays flash in dizzying arrays, winking in and out, drizzling like dripping icicles. sad songs spill continuously from the stereo as we drive through one neighborhood after the next, aimless in our contentment.
it's half-past-2:00 in the morning and i'm singing Panic! at the Disco with (and for) you. i write of sins and hope this doesn't end in tragedy as Trade Wind shifts and entreats us to drift listless as asteroids rocked to sleep in the arms of an ambivalent cosmos.
we may all be made of star stuff, but we both agree: there's no god who could love this world. so as we lift crude gestures to an apathetic sky, we realize the task falls to us. we must love, for beauty persists in spite of all the sorrow.
i am happy to spin perpetually, elastic and ecstatic in your orbit. for every now and then your beams of light filter through my prism and provide another connection along our wavelength.