Each of our isolated minds, in a fit of jealous rage, hiding from the scorching sun or the freezing moon, hanging like a glowing fingernail in the sky, the heavens appeased with the blood of our eyes, our peppermint red eyes and our vegetable state for a careless weekend. Elysian fields abound with abundant gold that you can never touch without turning to stone. Then the alchemist takes your dead-stoned body and transfers you into shining golden bars.
Long morning with forethought, the memories swirling around like low pressure systems colliding with the present and we know, in our deepest hearts, that we were, and potentially still are, being incredibly childish. We were, and probably still are, condemned to the fires of our sporadic emotions. We are experiencing the constantly intangible. The mornings of night terror and boiling water coming up from the burbling earth.
Floating on a celestial cloud city, the greek gods mull about without much responsibility. (The possibility that the greeks were right? and that everything else is blasphemous?) They have nothing to do in their tropical cloud city, of large white iron gates and softly illuminated sky-gardens. There are ramparts and switch backs to the higher levels of paradise, to the empty throne of the god of all gods, he is not needed in that sort of power any more and it has been so for thousands of years, eternally having servants feed grapes into the thin air, fanning off empty space as if warding off a fowl scent. Not possible in paradise; a foul scent.
