These days are stale. These months are unreliable. The lights in the nearby auditorium flicker with a slight sense of urgency. The audience multiplies, stricken with a virus. Insecurities and unwanted opinions line the velvet curtains. To our dismay, there is no film to be shown here. There is only irrational fear bottled up; stored away for the next viewing.
This scilence consumes my mind, as scheduled. Unspoken and reserved, it willingly surrenders. Opinion is rendered illegal in this city. No longer will this go on, they say. Decievers, they are. For it is you who will be decieved.
People walk this earth with regret. Regretting the decisions they choose to make time and time again. Transposing every detail as it were a lucid malfunction of the past, short-circuits of effervescent impulse. Done at a very whim. Action over impulse. Impulse over action. We are caught in a natural disaster of our own errors. It's all the same. Pseudo-visions coming from an all too familiar source. Radiant aren't they? So much they engulf my iris in a torrent of contradiction. These are the times we live for. Nostalgia is no longer in our vocabulary.