Falling from Manta by The Spring

In slow motion. Rolling tumbling down tussocks waving. There's a rhythm to this - enjoyable once you get into the groove. Up down join in the procession of perpetual movement. What's a mind expected to do in a situation like this? Eyes open wide tongues lolling you've lost it and you've never felt this alive. Bones are for holding, saving, shattering. Explode in the night convulsing skeleton. From whence these flashing lights? Anniversaries each second sanity rains. We've been thrown into it so why not continue to throw ourselves around. Erratic shadows dwarfed by the shadow. Such whimsical dwarves. Wrecks and wracks over the fields the cities the ocean the sky everywhere a dancefloor squeeze the marrow, giggle, slide around in it. There are countless types of reason, as it turns out. Perhaps they are all just modes of the overarching thing. If that's the case then should they not all be explored and experienced? It's a dangerous task and really very selfish. There can be no daily life or day when one lives this way, if life you can call it (and you certainly can). What joy to find another. What joy to move through the night. Illumination. Inexplicable. Sense of the depths, a shudder. Silly billy.

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