Flutterkicks

I love the feeling of cloth flapping in the wind, the almost dull snapping sound resonates soundly. Transverse yet longitudinal, the circles spread. You transcend into a higher plane of being; where clocks start to melt and ants sipping spilled time dew. In this warped dimension of being and non-being,  you start to deconstruct.

Flowing fabrics are a cock tease, a big fuck you to the very oppressing reality. It is an escape from the high fences barricading your tortured mind, longing for home though technically you are home, but then again, you are not.

May the cloth rise and smother the mocking migratory birds to stop their incessant cawing. May the cloth rise and bring back dreams of dreamers; Hypnos with his loom spinning the very yarn of a bard's garb accompanied by the muses.

Amidst the star spangled skyscape you redraw constellations as they recite stories of the yesteryear, ghosts of soldier's past retelling anecdotes and sordid tragedies, of lost love and fervent hope.

So tear out your six packs and scream. Supersonic shrills tearing down the seams the scene chock full of block buildings and wilderness like a really bad painting.

Do you think you are free? Nope. The fences stubbornly stood, blessed with Heimdallr's blood. So you resigned your self to fate.

Five counts of four, exercise begin.