Bending moments into garbage bags of warped crinkles. The after of the beginning is the middle of the time where ants run wild in their teeth crunching abilities. Medium is always the rare in a time of easy softness. The lights of cakes whip up their soul in a few minutes and leave a trailing winding upward path of smoke. And we’re supposed to follow it. But our wishes never do. Off the shore the trees lean their way to freedom pieces where chocolate is the least of worries and chips of plastic are the overbearing prize of the individuals that last till the last wind roars.
You’re the bending of the brittle, with the warp and the crinkle in a time of den. When you’re slipping stares and rugged reasons into a solid slot of truth. The type of style air is, is the only thing you don’t know. And it doesn’t matter what you remember, just that you’re the ability of movement. Backwards, forwards, you’re the run of the century. Little crystals of warmth and strength and to hold on to any dab of confidence is what you’ll do to be a moment of a warped crinkled garbage bag.