Picture a script: with concealed dying wishes inside bones with leather and absent flesh. A white feather and a gun lie on the table: Which one would you choose?
Homeless eyes sweep upwards, pleading with silent wings; A dark, dripping, freezing sense of self is ever present. But to listen to that same track over and over is to relinquish control - to hear the drone yet not see it's maker; the opening is too obscure.
Watching eyes; daring it to come near - to find it's way in (and a relief washes over those who miss their opportunities to be brave).
The worst thing is - you might not be able to do this. You might just not be able to make those words slide from Technicolor neurones to wide, brash screen (or even folded bits of old bills and life demands long thrown into your past).
It's uninspired and flat sometimes - like barren industries or hopeful cake in Hull. Indulgence is years long and then some and it penetrates souls that are eager for education.
Salt can make you insane apparently. It can also murder your heart valves whilst providing protection for those you love (clearly and quite dearly).
Wet, shining streets and ochre light remind us all of good times and bad. Times when we are told that we are never quite in our right souls. Seems to be the right way to me.
It's all the same - being cold through deficient electrolytes or not finding your way home.
Angels often emerge from salt - it's important.
~ SRWB 2010
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