A suicided wave against her heart's stony shore.
I found that line in my notes just now. Who do I think I am, writing shit like that? Audaciously artless. Who was I referring to; myself or another? Whose shore?
I'm not sure.
Mysteries - enigmatic blacknesses pressed into little cuneiform shapes supposed to signify or symbolize ideas, passions - smeared reflections cast in puddles beside a mad and lurid carousel.
I'm doing it again. Inspired by the attempted aversion.
Where does inspiration come from anyway? In a sense, everything that is was inspired by something that preceded it, and everything that is will inspire something else. Except, is that always true? Don't there exist things that simply impinge nothing? The anonymity of some dying flower in a darkened meadow - its last dull glimmer under the full moon. A still undiscovered creature falling prey to extinction. Even then though, each of these were borne of drifting pollen, whether plant or beast; their corpses, broken down and consumed by creatures much smaller than themselves, will consummate their contribution.
And lo, ideas, shapeless florets floating on invisible sails - dandelion dreams dancing in the breeze.
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