Let’s run amok, you said Ooh! Okay, I said Fancy a picnic? you said Or, I said we can hang in my garden and drink mead with the cats. I’ll come straight over, you said.
“Pure and complete sorrow is as impossible as pure and complete joy.” – Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace
How can I viably write about war when it will only end in why and what for and glum inertia for the striving third world children who’ll never know what childhood means.
Somewhere in the privileged first world a sentimental Romeo plays the piano. His only problem – how to make inroads with the citrus-perfumed temptation waltzing his way.
He wonders if she’ll leave with him at midnight.
He is crestfallen when she leaves with his friend.
I changed again in the night a flight to a mayan dreamscape not mine, but a spidery vortex of others.
I flitted this way and that as is my wont, tweaked a scene here pulled a string there for dream lords are not so different from time lords.
We all but stop the nightmares creeping in though of course there’s always a realm for boogeymen.
Finally I enter a fantasy at the other end of Yonderland and watch as an opera of rainsong falls in thundering symphony from the petticoats of the newly escaped Eurydice.