On the graduation of the spirit

It's often that those of sentimental flourish deny the soul its natural gravitations. It's like they don't understand what a ripeness like that requires.

So we stare out the windows--mostly just the west. When does the new, modern, bluey architecture swirl up into its full construction? The pallid grey green lingers over black. There's only so much of this to save.

So, like, we've seen the great digital. The guerilla setnaps and their alienations. Once again, the trek left unmade. These artifacts can't be so easily cast away. They are the partials of reality, or even the units of the dreamscape. My half-boots trudge through the fluff. I'm in; time to take my duty. The afternoon ephemera begs one more chance. I stay hard in repetition; maybe tomorrow.

Mister Neighborhood, I just want my trains back. Mister Silver says good job son. Mister Yellow Box knows a place aback the commerce stand. I know him before. My triangle stays me close. I'm not long now.