I was standing on the edge of a perforated sphere when the water filled every hole. And thousands upon thousands made an ocean, making islands where no island should go.
It has been too long since my fingers have reached into the depths of imagination and I have spilled the contents of my lungs onto the hard, dark asphalt of the cyber-world.
I am peripheral and perhaps I do not mind that.
What more do I have to say for myself
as I continue this litany of poorly structured prose?
Really, all it feels like is a page of self-deceipt and narcissism.
Dull, Dull, Dull.
As arid as an empty page
Or a man who collects umbrellas and writes dire poetry.
Those are rainy day affairs, for the winter.
It is spring now.
Alas.
Youth is wasted on the young, but also on the old.
Let me go and seat myself behind books dripping with ink.
Apparently there's protest action going on on the Rooiplein because the Dalai lama wasn't allowed into the country for your birthday. It's absolutely outrageous that the ANC are only looking out for their own interests and I will say it for as long as I am able.
The words are a swarm of bees in the sultry heat of the afternoon. Their monotonous drone languidly fills the space. They are an irritation on the periphery of private worlds. The girls sit, inattentive and apathetic, consumed by the minutaie of their solar systems, of which they are the model sun.
Meanwhile the speaker in front continues his litany. He is a puppet of the system. To his audience he is as wooden and inanimate as the hard desks to which they are bound daily - inmates of their ignorance.
The ancient globe creaks on the rusty hinges of its axis, as it slowly turns its face away from the sun's penetrating stare. A bell cracks the soundproof glass and sound pours into the void.