Madame, we are mad. We are all frighteningly and beautifully mad. We’re all so mad and we don’t even know it. Synchronized rampages, and flexible outbursts of waxy and golden fireworks. Rage and lust bubbling up in the pits of the cauldron we call stomach.
You’re nervous? Well so am I. You’re frightened? Allow me to introduce you to the act of throwing caution to hurricanes and damning senseless things to hell. You didn’t think you would find the Riot burrowed deep in your marrow? You didn’t believe it when they told you you were made of all things cosmic? Made of every explosion that rocked and was engorged in screaming silence? You couldn’t fathom that our madness was mutual, our beings restless?
And at the center of our collective confusion laid Sanity all curled up and white, awaiting being awoken. Yet I don’t dare touch Her. Why?
I find us much more interesting when we don’t know down from up.
Created: Jul 24, 2010Document Media