bucolic inconsistencies

Out on a limb, one of air brushing my ear and the difference between walking and riding a bike. Of faulty lines and dissociative reason and accountability. What whirs could chirp too, listlessly and congenial.  Sought as pressure to the stack, posts whip past the empty window reflecting that whip.  Dawn crunch and strident silent syllables find the door’s squeak from under my foot at ear level.  You could bob your head to it to make it bob your head.  Dazzling normalcy intervenes the hospital breezeway, as with the gust of the library’s isles. The guests, silent wrecks, shift. Squeaked cogs there and back a never settling pack at the light across the shrine. The whine from its buzz locates its lazy corner off bricks ornate against slate, glass and concrete resounding.

Barraging distances grind has sounds raging quietly serious and soft.  Felt vibes contort posture towards reflex, responsibility.  Climbing speed back to a lull. With what lies at home up and languid I’m feigning my own quietness.  Cabin aired bucolic tint rushed and brushed away in trade for the pungency of scrubbing. Cracked shut, squeaked the windows up around me. To the right more falsity, left of that an actuality revised and filtered and the want of words could not come close to riling up, hauling off, with a breath expelled to level inconsistencies’ reality.




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