Straining to fade, showing disdain under the shade. Straight shapes are mocking slate, greying at their edges.
At the edges of hedges? Hedges have not defined themselves very well; there is no distinction of their instinct, coloured pink by the thinking slates, sharpened by the fading of their slivers of strife, and climbing arrives like clockwork knives. Steel dryers respire and wait to fade some more, waiting by the washing machines. Fade in to the seams of screaming slits of steam, or smoke, choking on the fading wires placed inside your televised mouth and throat. Swallowing the faded things takes no time or effort, I think. No time until nothing. No things are to be found here now.
Fading at all of your stations and stages, turning your pacing pages. You are really, really lucky. Fade into linear strokes or indistinct, whirring blurs, the outlines drawn not so clearly. Sometimes, you are as stark as a bare bulb. Sometimes, that is a good way to be, but fading is also good. Fade in to the baseline, please, fading back around the background and around and around. There has to be a way to fade beyond the shore, but with your presence still there, a stare. Our silhuouette is getting wet. I will peep beneath the grass and find the vanishing point. I’ll learn about perspective and how to exit it. The baseline is only simple and straight, at the very bottom of the page; vanishing at allocated points is slightly more difficult. Altering prospective perspectives makes me feel uneasy and queasy. Unlike hedges, they have certain edges, and I can never find the easy way out. It is like a puzzle with no obvious solution for my salutations. The vanishing point shall anoint nervous noise from the thin, clear lines that are everywhere. There must be a way, as I cannot stay. Fearless fader, set your phasers to play inside of the grey, and hope to interpret the faint phrases thnat explain the way to stain the carpets, the ceilings and the walls with doors and windows, nudging at the curtains, gently. There’s so much more, below the floors, around the walls and the sealing of the windows to painless panes.
I am exhausted now. Exhaustion is for trains. Trains cannot yet fade. Fade and wait, until the crevices start pursing and pulsating, nursing laces of lips. They sometimes slip.
