17 March 2006
The Sort of Thing Claypot Dreamstance Likes to Say When He Has a Few Too Many
Listen: We’re all bits of fire. Sparked in a warm embrace, we flare up out of our mother’s wombs, sputter on the bottom of a gaseous ocean, oxidize the molecules breath by breath, and are replenished by trees that keep us from extinguishing in the emptiness beyond. All the while we burn, our shining flesh coated with auras of heated air. And all that we are, all that we give, is more air. Generated by our combusting blood, pushed out of our simmering lungs across our tepid tongues, to disturb the sea with the fading pressure of heat wave ripples.
Labels: Claypot Dreamstance