Hyperspace

It’s fascinating how many spheres of “everything” exists. Magnitudes held within a lifespan, where some epicenters hold their own candle.

A Post Malone shuffled radio and walking along some Miami beach-side pool or now a stadium shaking Terrible Towels and a casket of beer to dunk amongst the tailgaters and some life regrets. Zoom elsewhere to land onto the lone Alaskan bar, in its consistent whisper of a wind shaking each window with the swinging lights and the decapitated moose staring at you down. Flinch amidst and visit the arcade and zoomie LEDs, chewing some gummy worms, watching the next dance dance, hi-score and out from the movie whether we’d watch some Bladerunner or Good Fellas.

Swagger down the Egyptian bazaar with all sorts of tongues and crimson sashes, silk road tunneled through and now all the crypto heists flashed again, Ulbricht pardoned, severed fingers and Wikileaks waiting to unleash a thousand year wrath with an opening ceremony of Google Veo marking our dissent into psychopathic horror, some Silent Hill but if you got enough blankets and snacks we can play some Animal Crossing DS til 2 a.m. and post the bulletin board.

I can’t find any stake to hold onto, walking down more and whether I’m in Sapporo amongst shuttered garages and a flint of a reflection found between the shadow to a flight and a moment in The Hyatt hailing over Jeju, booking Shenzhen and hop right over from Hong Kong — all the embassies hang out there anyway.

Unbuttoned polo and a gold chain to a full mercenary’s suit with the machete for some Australian extraction team. Perhaps we can forgot the horrors found in Antarctica, codename killer whales. You can go tribal after the brief and tunnel through the Soviet’s abandoned factories, with a recording of heavy breathing begging to please leave.

If I roam enough mountainsides with the Himalayas peaking, perhaps then we can revive and view and wonder what’d happened if the Warring States went a different way. Alas, instead I follow the vines threaded between a thousand years more all planted from Buddha, weaved between the East India Company rule.

Whip the axe out of the villagers head while burning all the crops. Maybe with enough ayahuasca the same villager will split a head back. Onward toward the mental asylum upon the hill with scrubs and clawing of the walls.

Indeed, let us return to our cubicle, now room, and look at the pixels move. Can we go back to suits at least?