OddSmirk

The arrangement of your atoms makes the arrangement of my atoms sing, and I want the emergent properties of our particular arrangements of atoms when brought together to be something more than just two particular arrangements of atoms.

You are a stage whisper; you're meant to be heard. You salt my eyes and swallow my vision - you are an ocean - and I don't mind opening up to see you (it's only a little pain). You are stained glass; you tint a world of geometrics in messy organics - as if it needed to be harder to look at. And I wonder if it's your ocean-ness or your whispery-ness or the way you spread butter on toast that makes my knees not weak but strong. You are the subtext of outside perception; too hard to see unless one gets closer - And god, do I wish I were closer than this.

The failed state is a hot mess of typos and flames. It's citizens live double lives and come from all over; their common interest draws them, their freedom binds them. And it's normal people who fall the furthest, who dig the deepest, who invest the most. They all hide behind the walls the city promises - safety and anonymity. The failed state and it's ignorant inhabitants feed off of each other, both growing aged in war and infantile in peace. It's the few who not only know, but understand, that rise above it all, The few who understand this; That longest shadow may be cast in data, and that the Internet is written in ink.

Music rains on my eyes, tasting grey, smelling of stars.