Instruments of the wind
Once again Im Being picked up by the sly sigh of the worlds berth. Im darting floting tumbling through a cold torrent of air, a meticulously random cycle of an endless falling flight.
Im a spiraling circuit of cracked red tiles and dancing black wisps of strangling smoke. We rise and fall together in a crafty mirage of life. We are the puppets that tell our own story a mind of a mind working to gether unknowingly to dance out a rhythm of endless thoughts and ideas.
We are the instruments of the wind...