There was a vibrant glaze to the stoic vision of nowhere this morning, it was all a shone in glittery nights and melancholy daze. The candle with which one stared into voided the glass brimmed darkly, amusing the ritual of scorn. That simplistic life that one takes over serious, making it so rigid as to falter and split at the slightest temperature change.

And the motion does altar into shades of light and dark, smoothing the line so that the blur no longer needs appealing. It just shifts to whatever degree is burning brightest. Consciousness has slid into the depth of a fractured dream, a reality that does not hold.

A cell that brings forth its cunning resolution to its finite instruction, and the mass of blubbering flesh bobs along with the current. Its masterful insurrection in all the glorious colors of its wavering moment, blewn to the stormy winds, tore down by violent outbursts, that all are blind to.