Michael Sibilia

The wasn’t much complaining to be done. In the thickest of minds and of that of sensory images the two fell apart. They could, and should, in most minds never be together. For she was northern and he was southern, and what good would that bring the world? The uncertainty of the weather, the uncertainty of life itself, the uncertainty of hormones and the uncertainty of provoking sexual desires from the weather. In a pique of self-related catastrophe it was that the two had met, and that the setting was far more liberal than maybe one should be. Perhaps it was the setting itself, maybe it stood for good, or greed in good, or maybe just maybe the explicit place had an honor, and she provoked a mistrust from various ideas of metamorphism way up higher than most in the reigning skies that shone onto the earth as one captured the essence of the globe itself. One little planet, and yet such a big world, and yet, such a crime to commit, and she had it, she had committed. This left Nicholas facetiously

thrilled beyond repair. He knew two things for certain, while he was gone she had run off with practically every guy in town, many of which bigger and stronger than the cheeky musician. But for two, the light shines on the earth he did walk slightly perturbed in the most brilliant of forces. She had dived for sin, he had relented, she had sought, , and there were two things greatest beyond any measure of a variant religion. The waking ocean and the tired fall. She had slipped, and no one was going to catch her. “she’s a horrible slighted version of something between promiscuous and animal amphetamine.” He kept grappling with the situation. The rain beat the ground with a velocity. The ashen skies and the ashen skies and the ashen world. The writer still smoked still stirred of the concept of a fall album. He smiled from his grave. The fib struck through the audience as the amplifiers waked to the goodness of greed in mankind. The Sahara and the moon and the amphetamine of mankind’s soul.