I've searched for years, for the sources, the color, the light on an
imaginary horizon that duplicates randomness, a disguise in the way it
glows, a place that exists in abstraction...
this white space looks at the mountains down a road, with hopes in a
serenade of appearances, waiting for something, like love...
in a moment this single snowflake's dreamy pleasure, melts, in a measure of
meanwhile, it's the beginning and the end in this delirium waltz, this
refuge, like wind, is a sway of emotion...
nothing we're apt to strive for really matters, the moon's reflection is a
terrible atmosphere, spinning existences in a voice that moves, finally
doom grows to brush off those left behind, the past means nothing to our
ever-present nowness...
this boredom, this despair, this silence, in an awkward remembrance, with a
strange shiver of pleasure, in wonder, in moments of repose, there's
something about the air...
all things are wronged, all breath, in a place created by one voice, into
one room, everything just comes and goes on easy surfaces of sleep...
ominous light-fingers register a collage of its own devising into a
celestial body, an expanse of red and blue geometric planes are broken up
by the appearance of an ice floe, we all gaze upward to fill up the
emptiness of time, something is wrong with the absolute, there's an
emptiness to the dance.




Send me your comments. Include the number of the image and write a few words about it. It can be a
story, poem, criticism, whatever you like. From time to time I'll update the results on this web page.
If you don't want your name included, sign with your initials.

EMAIL: atmospheres@sympatico.ca


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CONTACT
atmospheres@sympatico.ca


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