Notes on Nothing 6.0

In mud, in muck.

Beguiled by diamondheads, snakewalker filaments. Eye on thee canyon, the withering mountain.

Be not aware of the language you're using -- caution all travelers of the spells in the ruins.

The Scotman wore green and he whispered a secret to the dogs on the leashes outside of the druggist.

In mud, in muck.

I never catch glances, or listen for greetings. My tatooine days see the light through the ripples.

Gorgeous and gorgon-like dreams suffuse the room (and snake-like fingers uncoil in the gloom).

Must be a Wednesday the way the time unhinges.

Every molecule seems to record all my winging.

In mud, in muck. Amen.