The Rains...

One sees the whole life of the little mouse. The tricks are bare. No scurry or, stillness in effect. The dew still curries. Each sweet evaporated puddle leaves calcified wringlets. Forever swelling and retracting, leaving high and low water rippling result. One can easily read the tracks of timeless swells'n'drought. Though no ever does.

There is still too much time on the books. He was halfway up a ladder. Any protest ment there was still a populous.  Take it in the mouth extruded it from the butthole. An anthem unsung but for every Drip and leak. Concrete designed to last two thousand years. Stalactites trickling. Small imperceptible caves, cracks-becoming-crevase gapping casome. Chip, Drip, becoming unnamed stalagmites, that peer in full prostration  upon unfathomable ancient pressures. Cosmos having no need for casual time.

The world down here is nothing but calm. Static from an unused channel.  What was life before the bomb? Droplets of water condense and run. Did life exist before the thunder? Unfettered arrorra, behind leaded clouds. Choked funeral piers, unburnt due to unconcern. It was odd nobody noticed the daffodils, on schedule, blooming before the real boom of March.

"Second crow video I've been sent today. My distant Indian blood senses great significance," Old chief. "Better enjoy your tic tak the government is trying to take it away." He shows no emotion, only wisdom, "The government is as stupid as the people who vote. Doomed by the Chinese
Fear
Doomed by Russia
Fear
Doomed by Jihadist. Not to mention general weirdness." Tears long faded,
"Each individual
a sovereign
Nation until
Boots are on their necks.

Or radiation in their teeth..."  One man in the face of countless billions of years,  kalpas, eons of sands upon sands.  Grains of sands in Galaxies grains of sands. Forevernations of sand. Infinitely pact-tight de-raveld into train whistled voiceless ghost delivery sand.
   Dirtwinkle new nothing of these things, but it is know, this is the dawning of the Dirtwinkle. What would a rat know of the sewage he grows fat upon and calls his home? Claws of the Great roaming bears, breaking apart carefully laid colonies of wood chewing ants, know nothing of the devastation of a finely aged log. Only, the sweet mininimal pop of a low calorie fair thoughtlessly obtained.

Batteries draining on shelves unused. Wind didn't blow, except in extreme. Are two dogs going to enter this room. One cannot Google the tablature of an unrecorded song. There are untapped tapes waiting to perturbe the unmolested airwaves of a forfeit culture.
"Could I choose to be schizophrenic?"

    The only part i'm not quite sure is right is the "cupping river to fresh steam mouth"? is this supposed to say something different? Uncle Jacob's Perspective: He reached satori while meditating beneath a waterfall. No one saw his feet touch the trail there after... He leapt from rock to rock, gliding above the river, exploring every fallen log, cupping river to fresh steam mouth. Dousing head in invigorative cool mountain stream.
He did not rush or lag, but was there on the hike in an inspirational, real-life, let's see and do and suffer true attitude. A trupper-tromper leader with the good sense of a seasoned Oregon trail stomper.  Coming home wearing a beanie, flannel, and boots, though his beard may appear fuller, after traversing some NW mountain trails. Still, he has the humility to realize his Great North West persona, logger booted-stomping, easy-way. will carry him curious and confident round the great big ball-dazzled world. "I'm writing out a blank check, but there's no fucking way you're ever going to cash it."

The glaciers and there melt was only tabloid. "Who is thirsty?" They asked.
And when they killed, they killed for real. Death meant nothing to them. At least there are still birds for the cats to kill. White glacier waters flowed in abundance. A mile thick secreted away in unaccessible glass like mountains, glaciers unexplored by the most ancient of Indians, or the most intrepid Anglo. 

Blink lights in night skies.

"My balls
the beauty
crystal snow flakes..."

Unto where do they roam, and can we get the dam to hold being everyone has forgotten their line...

Country music song:
"Sumday, I'll luv u better!"

By Beater Stink Brown.

Oh such a good song. The local cuck-heads would proclaim, as they flapped about on the dirt feild. "Hero!" The fat boy with glasses would proclaim. Presumably everyone knew what this ment. There would be a mad rush the the countertop, where the drooling and beaging began.