SOMEWHERE TO GO

This TV show, it's all about you –

Can we believe it: the chicks in school have recently been watching you. In all probability the wind makes movement in their golden hair, and a not altogether expected turn to religion in their homely essence too; the sentence as such a last resort may be decisive.

But objectively a state of crisis rules the county. The roads are bumping up and down like rumors in this infamous heat, the church towers incessantly exchanging time and space make birds' consistent navigation difficult, and only the barely visible weak current ciphers inserted into the foliages of suburban parks can still reflect developments of trade in southern Europe.

Still there is hope of return and tradition. A trinitarian view of God breaks out of the window crosses and constitutes itself as universal metheorology. Ignorance is raising temples. Unborn children snap their moorings and rush away like roaring blue torpedoes centuries beyond the Ark of Noah.

But what are you really doing, so evidently hapless there deep down in the cave of Melancholy? They say you're stuck in overdue time, so get communicative and crawl out slowly. There is much to recall on the eve of insomnia. One stone yesterday afterwards and thirteen letters for your lantern days.