Slumber

Inner turmoil eases into an babbling urgency - frothing like a crab gurgled swaddling garment of bubbles which encompasses consciousness; each opus's pellucid glint hidden from sight, appearing for fleeting instants: each moment's realization of non-reality smudged by a globule's traipsing movement. Wariness? Ever present. Ever grasping for attention. Yet ever obscured into a nonentity. Ever clawing to escape from its dream imposed dungeon.

Mountainside parking spots. A gradient so steep, the parked cars caressing peripheral vision, creating a looming corridor up the hill, groan under gravity's strain; the incessant pull, pull, pull ebbs at their resolution. Onward towards beach. Onward to the dilapidated wreck. How does the decrepit house draw us near, we travelers blissfully unaware of the journey's true means of locomotion? The beach glistens ahead. Just an alley remains. And dogs

wwwwwwowowohurryhurryoooooowoooorunrunrunrunoowooowooooomoveyouimbeciles

woooooowoooffffhhhrhrhrhhrmmmrhmrhmaccckkkkghhwooooowoowofoof.

Sand cemetery. Wood beams chafed coarse by the swirling wisps of sand – little centimeter tall tornadoes twist round their torpid companions, endeavoring for each excruciatingly elongated ellipse to grind the planks further into their gritty graves. White paint flakes hang like jagged hangnails on the drowning fence, though no grubby teenager's gob shall tear the protrusions bare, instead, like a wave of hands limping 'round an elementary school's basketball floor, the wind's languorous lift coddles out the sole sense of movement in this barren scene. Vacant lot. Vacant beach. Vacant sea. And indeed specters we are, suspended in motion, susceptible to the dreamweaver's macabre undercurrent; and with one swift inward gulp, the looming sea-side mansion yanks gaze into Her deplorable wreck.

Sand permeates even here. Islands of objects. Bookcase. Vase. Diaphonous haze – so pristine, no, no, no, too pristine. The surrounding atmosphere beyond rarefied: not even alloted an environ of air, we too become islands, awaiting a frozen froufrou fate.

Loiter here, among the austere, and from the rear, you'll feel her leer.

Woman is this your house?

The moment's glimpse faded, escape thwarted, entranced now by preoccupation. Hammered windchime harp. Well go at it, reach for your ax, let each heave intoxicate perception further, unleash flurries of inaccessible notes – no matter the tones hide from ear, no matter the mallets move of extraneous volition, 'tis but a normal occurrence, 'tis but a trivial matter of incoherence, pour away existence into focus, pour without heed to the GREY PASSERBY she's nothing to note, nothing but AGE INCARNATE. Dizzy, hypnotize, enrapture, submit to her command. The witch's house gloom now stains the room, brewin', and stewin' the tincture of doom, no dust in this flew, nor midnight dew, start anew, ha! you bafoon, group baboon, estranged loon, cry a croon, fresco festoons,

ululate undulating utterance:

TARRY NO MORE

FRANTIC FANATIC ANTIC TIC

SHE INHABITS HERE

SHE INHABITS HERE

SHE INHABITS HERE

SHEEN RABBIT'S HARE

SHIN RABID HAIR

The sheen of rabbit's hair fuzzily covering her shins snakes all the way up to the top of her head, adorned with a veritable umbrella - sparkles and strands of every color shimmer under the glistening sun, distracting from the javelin long appendage of a cigarette holder directing us to be seated. “I can quit at any time you know, the chemistry depends entirely upon your hair, so if I wish to abstain, I'll just shave it all off,” wisps fall from their follicle holsters to land daintily on the ground. “Oh good heavens have you before spoken of the wonders of plant made wool? The little strands plucked from the ground,” instantly materializing as a yellow polka dot upon navy turtleneck-skirt embracing the lovely woman who scampers away into dreamland's obfuscation.