Lascivious Maximus
09-08-2005, 05:15
Imogen Heap wrote about crop circles in the carpet, my eyes came weepy at the ground and I turned my smile on weakly for the sound of times eager footsteps trespassing across my mind.
O, but the times in life that pass us by. The little moments of divine consequence that we remember only after they have gone silently into the fog of night… how they haunt us. A girl’s smile turned sideways at the ground as she turns shyly from the earnest advances of a fledgling young man. The way a boy closes his eyes when he laughs, as if attempting to escape his own trepidation at the thought of losing control. All the world, creeping slowly towards the upturned end of time and rushing past a moment lost somewhere between this life and the illusion of a fairy-tale reality.
O, and the stories they leave behind. We all carry with us the words of a time gone by. And they compose the story of our lives like a Hemmingway novel; rich and charming, so pure and yet so lavish. And all the first kisses, the first footsteps, the starry nights and the broken hearts that followed but lead to new beginnings…
Like crop circles in the carpet, traced away by timid hands as two lovers sit and talk… not knowing the movement of their digits as they laugh and tilt their heads away… The foreign shapes cast by tentative fingers amidst the swaying fibers of pile polyester happiness… To be discovered by some person, alien to their origin and their complex meaning… and not to be understood by anyone but those who set them down.
And tonight... somewhere in the world... on some lonely desert of fabric... the circles are being thrown... and in every line of mystery, the passing of a memory and a time gone by.
Have you been forming crop circles in the carpet? ;)
O, but the times in life that pass us by. The little moments of divine consequence that we remember only after they have gone silently into the fog of night… how they haunt us. A girl’s smile turned sideways at the ground as she turns shyly from the earnest advances of a fledgling young man. The way a boy closes his eyes when he laughs, as if attempting to escape his own trepidation at the thought of losing control. All the world, creeping slowly towards the upturned end of time and rushing past a moment lost somewhere between this life and the illusion of a fairy-tale reality.
O, and the stories they leave behind. We all carry with us the words of a time gone by. And they compose the story of our lives like a Hemmingway novel; rich and charming, so pure and yet so lavish. And all the first kisses, the first footsteps, the starry nights and the broken hearts that followed but lead to new beginnings…
Like crop circles in the carpet, traced away by timid hands as two lovers sit and talk… not knowing the movement of their digits as they laugh and tilt their heads away… The foreign shapes cast by tentative fingers amidst the swaying fibers of pile polyester happiness… To be discovered by some person, alien to their origin and their complex meaning… and not to be understood by anyone but those who set them down.
And tonight... somewhere in the world... on some lonely desert of fabric... the circles are being thrown... and in every line of mystery, the passing of a memory and a time gone by.
Have you been forming crop circles in the carpet? ;)