Pipeline

Red lanterns raised by the night's wind: adding stars to a sky that has billions.
Soft songs coming from the next bungalow: anodyne bass riffs and steel guitars. I am bungalow #100, it must be #99. Numbers get higher the closer you get to the ocean.

Light on one side, surf on the other. Water is never just on one side: if you travel enough, you'll eventually find it again. The sea it's always on both sides, it's just a matter of distance.
Maps can really help you visualize this, for maps are the first form of cubism.
To see better by wiping out a dimension.

A strange group parades in front of my bungalow: a dog and a cock.
Catwalk with no cats.
I have distant memories of a similar bunch: the cock should climb on the dog's back, to play a flute or something. They don't.
I've seen an octopus during my last diving session: it doesn't fit with the story I recall but it may be part of a new story I should create for them.

The lanterns are quickly loosing altitude: I should go fishing before their lights fade out.

Baby bloomers

"Life's not that different" said the toad "you perceive yourself as an isolated event until you realize not only you're not unique, but that the very same structures you take part to are clones, replicated as far as the eye can see with slow gradients and timid shades. Interlacing threads making plots which, combined together, tell tales."

It takes a deep breath into its cigarette. They wonder how can it close its wide mouth over such a small diameter. Physics of a smoking frog. The gas station was shut down years ago: no risk in smoking here.

"You probably don't taste it as you should" says someone.
The toad squints the audience, refusing to comment.
"I doubt you can really suck smoke in your lungs."
"Yeah, do toads have lungs?"
"You should probably smoke the cigar, frogman".
"That's true!"
"I've heard it's healthier, you know?"

It drops the cigarette and waves its hands to calm everyone down. It leans over an empty chair and waits for silence before going on, its hands tightly holding the chair's backrest.

"Do you know what medieval tapestries are? I fell in love with the Bayeux tapestry a long time ago. I've always thought that, if I would have followed that cloth, I would have found myself."
Its eyes are now calmly scanning their faces, looking for something they won't find.

"Tell us more about the trapestry!"

The toad smirks: "there's a section where Halley's comet is illustrated. See, to me a metamorphosys is not a sophistication of life: metamorphosys is life."

"And you believe your opinion counts?"
"It has to, dude: it used to be a tadpole!"

Exuviae pluviae

Look inside your guts. Shapes are hidden in their meanderings: faces of people yet to meet and long gone friends. Our internal horoscope speaks in its sleep: the bull, the bear, Versailles, the little farewell, the stone in the mouth, the sensation that gives a name to any other sensation.

Excursus: the stone in the mouth. Perseverance furthers. The eager lover spoils what keeps him alive. Affection must follow unruled diets: to keep without holding, to hold without keeping. Image: a fat chick crossing a spring creek.

We zoom out to sync vision with perception. Boiling feelings and chilling omens. Life as rich puddles connected by our efforts. Some like it hot, some feel the current, others spend their life in an ice block. Analyzing life is easier when you expect others to consider yours. Puddles are connected by vanishing lines, crawling lifes to build life.

I am beginning to enjoy rap. Some people never age, they keep liking what the youngs like. Slipping from puddle to puddle into the same one, wasting time in a soul hydromassage. I enjoy it more when it's bad, and I mean the rap. Can't really believe when rappers insult third parties: blame is first a warning to ourselves. What not to do in capital letters. The worst the rap, the cleaner the links, the more geometrical the pattern, the more I can empathize with this people. I see them failing my very same way: we're partner in lameness.