Catalyst catalyst catalyst she said as she circled round the tree

Please someone explain to me these massive squishy mushrooms

Sounds in the distance
Sounds in the close
She thinks of hot toddys and Guatemalan wanderings


GUNSHOT!! Live fire!! Death is clos.

it sits beside me chewing bark and throwing stones.

My orange armor guaranteed nothing because a gun cannot see colors.
Temperatures rise and ride and run and rip the clothes from my back,
Down down, soaked to the bone and seeing nothing but floating lives and absent ducks.

Hidden, breathing through a hollow reed, streams of consciousness once a pulsing river, disperses and separates into anothers eyes. For oxygen is no longer a comfort but a rare and fleeting commodity.
Without the breath i may as well bite the bullet that cannot see colors because it goes too fast to remember that things that move are alive in a way that it can only dream. In it's dark holster, a little tiny womb, it awaits its destiny, to terminate life, to embed itself in muscle and flesh.

What if we are bullets, that quiet womb our schools, being trained to fire, pay no attention to the colors. Do not ramble; rest until the trigger is pulled, then do your duty. There's another one behind you to take your place, go die in another battle.

Or sink where you cannot be seen, and breath no more.