Beacons flag at a lit sky over the abstract symbol of production. Something gained for everything lost. John: ‘there are some people who are productive with their days.’ Magusto: ‘How do they get up this early on a Sunday morning?’ Slumping back onto the rail of the skate park.

Lost track of time, so it goes. With all our lives promised as day time creatures, we are restless. Asleep in the dim morning is the instinct of insects night the time of limited prospects and low regard for objects, pro’s suggest our early morning counter parts are due in their success but the dew is more than water for the eyes of early risers. It’s quenches the thrist of those who have been awake since dawn dawned the night before. Lost track of light, so it goes.

As the sky rises seems to give the only honest interactions between productive and wastrels. Smiles from dog walkers to bicycle riding hooligans, iris’ stretched, wired as they are. The one with the pooch may even turn home to tell their still waking husband of the wonder they saw of such early morning risers in such young faces! Though they didn’t see the bottle of bourbon stashed near that gum tree. No those details slip by anyone who has seen total black the night before… And is that a joint or a cigarette petard to their lips?

For everything gained something is lost, lost wonder, for them who couldn’t see the light through light thoughted routine, The streams of the sun through lastnight’s clouds or the inner fury to keep thrashed eyes open. Gained is that stability of thinking we’re probably layabouts about to fall of the rails, the plans of which their corporate emails entail. But always concrete cathedrals paile to a stars holy grail. Title all so fickle in the morning light. Nature has a prickly sense of justice, patience to match. While others catch rest the best will see no than sleep upon death. Twice as many breaths and a stretch. Nails hardened at this and hair grows long.

Skin rubbed raw and claws rake faces that have endure beats and bludgeons to stay trudging on.

The insects instincts and reactions strain outward from high eyes, as euphoria fades to splayed soul, in love with all. Small trash matching clutching schedules residual value

I’m telling, you know little of sleeping rough, drivel, no bluff neither do we. But those staining tired eyes shed light on plights they feel dry toward. Only difference is the shades. Only difference is our parents made it, while they fade with no fresh pink glaze.

That’s probably what they think it’s why we’re doing this. So what can we do but keep sleepless nights contemplating corporate slights, for insects with no swarm aren’t long warm. Yet their utopia is out dystopia reality, ignorance is a privilege see we got the choice so did you, they choose both of two for the other to suffer the later. For everything gained something is lost.

But we the dreamless dream of heterotopia the beautifully plain middle ground that contains in spaces our fires glazed pink from just. letting. go. 

Truely rose coloured even when we remove or sunglasses

🎍🎋🌊

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