Clouds: an on-going tale. (1)

She wrote.

Time is a series of binary codes, digit by digit, small pulses of energy that construct information. Time was measured in gold in 1944. Time is money. Time is what has passed and what will. Time is never enough. Time is an illusion. You are an illusion. We all are.

The world will end up without oxygen and nothing will ever rust again. Perhaps one day we will miss the rusty edges of a kitchen cabinet. Someday we may even miss tetanus.

I see the edges rust with glee. The microscopic war between molecules, I wonder what side I am on. I suggest we start embracing mosquitoes as a sign that there is still blood circulating in our vessels. There are explosions everywhere; we are the aftermath of an explosion… the most special kind of debris. I want to know if you’ve ever felt something burst inside you. But I refrain, you must have had an orgasm at your age, well it’s expected of you. I hope you have.

Prefer not to ask, in fear of an unexpected response; I turn my cheek towards the saints. Statues clothed in every color available to the eye to catch. And the beautiful sound of those 4 amazing seconds in a song.

Candlesticks burn away the sadness of mourners, yet the sun still shines. Electromagnetic fields make the sky look blue and clouds that once surf the wind are now static. They stopped progressing on into the next latitudes; they are no longer unicorns that transform into hats or elephants or any-thing reflected upon ever-changing nimbus. Somebody forgot to run the program. I wonder why.

Maybe she slept in or he’s late because of a doctor’s appointment that he clumsily forgot to call-in.

“Jajajaaa jum…”- laughing out quietly. “It must be the wind”. The day is still amazingly beautiful looking at it from this hill. I smile alone and listen.