The colour seemed loudest at night and the red rock bloomed like honey trees and I'm here and I'm now and there is nothing the world can say. The man is too little to know of his wrongdoing, much like the long-haired stallion is too keen for his own good. It's a type of give, a give and a take, but mostly a take.
"Owwwwwwwwwiiii" the man cried and all that heard it floated to the tip-tops of the heavens above. Like a great big shadow in the sky, with cotton candy stripes and big yellow sunbeams! You're flying and you don't even know it. Flying and yelling and screaming at the top of your lungs for all to hear, but no one is there to listen any more. Their eardrums aren't developed and they have plugs in their ears anyway.
Too much sound. Too much hot hot fever. The boy can only handle so much before he is pained and dying inside. He asks if it's real and if it's real if he can hold it. "No" is the answer, "and you can be quiet about it too". Silence.
"Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, you'll wake the neighbors".
One. Two. There is no sign of the here and now, there is just the then and later. Once the sky falls and the people float to the ends of the earth, the world rewinds and all becomes still, as if it were just the beginning. Then the typewriters begins buzzing and clickity clack of the keys are writing the story and pretending they know what's good for them. The story begins within the story, an utmost lie if I ever heard one. The story never ends, just goes and goes and type type type type ype ype ype pe pe e ...
Keeps on and keeps on and rewind. Buzz. The sound is deafening if you get too close and you'll go blind within a minute if you let your retina focus too much on the moving parts. You'll believe it when you see it. You'll be promised if you don't cross your toes and your teeth are straight. The sky is only so far up and the moon ain't no picnic either.
You'll get there someday so don't worry. They all get there someday.