wanderlust wonderlost

So I am sitting here with a Dude-style White Russian. You know what I mean. Vodka, Kahlua, and top it off with powdered non-dairy creamer. After all, we are both resourceful individuals.

And I wonder on nights like this about this internet through which I write you . Supposedly liberating. But perhaps, a sign of our complete domination by another. My free speech flowing and flittering about the cybercelestial cosmos. As if caught by the stellar wind, we return and return to the place of our defeat.

Silence is shed, left to drift into the distance. A constant morning consumes our nights. Our days are born a morning darkness. In the shade of our house it burns the skins of our names. We relax ourselves and resign ourselves to the peace of oblivion. But forgetting we are not.

There are times in our ears when we catch a memory. Its sound disappears for a moment it seems but forever. But its shadow shines upon our eyes, and its echo continues unending.