Wednesday, 10 February 2010

Our eternal improvised act.

Nothing else to follow, no plot to hold them.
A highway to the sea and the sun.
Astray from their fate driven lives
They would carve their own story in the sand
And run through the woods.
In the rapture of their plotless adventure
Nothing in their heads and no feelings to share but joy
What no one can hold and they decide
The beginning,
The middle,
The end
In real time
What one said the other completed
In a game they play in their imagination

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