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Elliott James Buckley – Somniloquence

. . . And furls in colours and wanders in dreams, the creators of colony and secrecy beam you up in lasers and time presses – the seams of fabrics as reams of web and tether, held together and holding out forever in sandbags of human life.
You enter avoiding, your entrancing permoiding of imagination devoid of fuel as you arrive somewhat empty; but soon do you find your fill, a matrix dilemma, a pink pill or some stillness yet undeveloped seeks you, to ask-tablature of yellow as a third option, to buy the will of the great authors said retraction – the maker, the game co-creator and graphic designer, web weaving: the reckoner of majesty.

Seeking he, I only find myself, or some other strange paradime suggestive to the rhythm of synchronicity I find as easy as becoming one, web weaves again and I notice the string comes undone. I leave my gun warm squeezing it too hard and practice my swing leaning back towards the mirror. An exercise of trust becomes the rust of my lack of balance, teetering and martyring my shadow I throw down and fall throughwards the should be breaking glass; there to meet the makers.

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