Florp.

I like staring for vulgarly long durations at the background in pictures. Tiny slivers of stories behind people. Textures and colours, leaves and lonely people. Inspirations lies in pixels. And grass is greener in the rains.

I saw a madman with his mouth open, staring at a treetop, sitting in a temple yard. Not in a picture.

I saw three birds. Triplets. Run amock, fly around, nest on a branch and disappear.

I heard tiny yellow leaves stuck on a car windowpane, talking to the grey. They said they'll be swept away.

Photographs at right angles, white on glass, sharp, delectable.

I felt eyes shoot through souls and then get tired because they were unseeing. Lifted up where a murmur from seven decades ago trembles across murky streams. Chiaroscuro of windswept dreams.

There are wonderful shocks at button presses now. Uneven pillows are soft.

There's a dull ache in the thigh. Simple pleasures in the sky. The bigger drops find the barest of spots.

Cold and blue and shriekingly true. Quietly dripping down, endless prickling. Things are quiet.

Old songs play by the dozen, machines get warmer while I disappear and then there's black on white pixels and there's inspiration, in a dark window, staring in.