Montage

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Science Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic


A wrote a thing, cut it in half, put the right side on the left, and connected the right side to it. Call it surgery, lol. ( the original is in bold, the way the universe makes sense of things is
not. ;) )

Submitted: January 19, 2018

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Submitted: January 19, 2018

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 the all powerful, to know exactly where the Are these the words of the almighty there? Are these words too late, or universe is going and why it is headed  to have a possible frame of mind in which premature, for us in our infantile existence of questions, and with impatience, demand   apply this knowledge? Are you tired of the answer? Me too.

at least a part we even cared enough to be curios about The world ended a long time ago, before  and danced all while we tried ourselves to anything other than ourselves. It laughed thunderheads darkened over our once sun lit sleep, immobile. Clouds rolled over, all the time of our everyday dying, distracting backbeat shadowed stride. It took up looking up, not ahead our eyes with should  have never really to us first place.

And, then nothing really mattered in the way it  the our space, unwelcome and invading our The figure on the horizon, hunting in  looking sideways, sizing us up, in territory. The figure outside on the street, operate to get done what we want to moment of unshared time. The figure we lost and gone forever. acquire; all temporary, all consuming,

all it starts all over again.

Until tomorrow, when words of the almighty?

Are these the a long time ago.The world ended.

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Are these the words of the almighty , the all powerful, to know exactly where the universe is going and why it is headed there? Are these words too late, or premature, for us in our infantile existence to have possible frame of mind in which to apply this knowledge? Are you tired of questions, and with impatience, demand at least a part of the answer? Me too.

The world ended a long time ago, before we even cared enough to be curios about anything other than ourselves. It laughed and danced all while we cried ourselves to sleep, immobile. Clouds rolled over, thunderheads darkened over our once sun lit backbeat shadowed stride. It took up all the time of our everyday dying, distracting our eyes with looking up, not ahead.

 

And, then nothing really mattered in the way it should have never really to us in the first place.

The figure on the horizon, hunting in our space, unwelcome and invading our territory. The figure outside on the street, looking sideways, sizing us up, in moment of unshared time. The figure we operate to get done what we want to acquire; all temporary, all consuming, all lost and gone forever.

 

Until tomorrow, when it starts all over again.

Are these the words of the almighty? 

The world ended a long time ago.

 
 
 


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