He takes his stroll so far as the landing, an old apprehensively worn wicker stool which won’t hold the weight of his eater’s body

Never could

Not one chance – but for the miserable eyes that attempt to quantify and dance again right near the tumult and might of the felt skyline

He is painting for noone anymore

Not even maybe himself – it takes a darting, daring, somewhat little jovial turn of that same eyeline to suffice

And remarkably attempt to cause the painting brush back inside of the roaring haunted house to move, so he believes it to be

Conscientiously calling him in – by the shape of its eager wet whistle

And the nocturnal notes in his filthy palm ask to be taken to another place, wherein desire and concentration count for everything except for the mistakes that he makes

Wonderful, perhaps how’s about purposeful mistakes this time – the lay of the way and utterly infuriates the size of his knockout soul

His uncontrollable impulses have been taking leave of themselves till he remains not… quite… wired right?

But, go again he shall – till all of the sprinting, squinting colours cease at play yet still run markedly away with themselves

To a rolling place of heavenly scripture and all about to be enveloped and crystallised

In the eye of the undiscovered discoverer