how can a lie take root, you might sometimes ask yourself. it isn’t a pattern you can will away. it isn’t the dim light of the end of the day. it’s something you will yourself toward. it’s something you find on the boardwalk before the tourists have arrived; those light denials. and once you have found it you can fell the tides over and out with a passage of prophesied doubt on the wings of tomorrow. and so you pass it on.

take a dip into the morning sun and find god in the rays. it’s like pulling on a tightrope, with the walker all in disarray and nearly falling, falling. and so you let go. but in letting go, he stumbles and realizes you were there helping his pace along, singing a song of torrid dreamlands. and now caught up in a land of cleanliness and living on all wrong. he slips from your sights and you find him wailing; hearing him sigh and outrightly lying on the pavement. he’s fine. he’s landed on his feet. and all because you were watching, waiting, hoping. loving the trenches while high above the clouds all dug up. and soon, he’ll be back on that tightrope. so hang on.

god is an old jazz singer

money is fake