Another day has passed.



Seems like everything, people as if in sign language.



Railroads high through colored lenses.



The dark lenses don't fit.



A xylophone tune of old songs. Brushes are but indication of your mood as is the qwerty keyboard sometimes a peacekeeper sometimes a hammer. Twinkle star it is late already ten.



Caleidoscope vision. Old stuff. New stuff. Junk garbage. Periscope high above noon.



Creation and green colors like trees in the horizon. Pink sky purple crossroads under grey horizon among the wedge of the carved nightscape.



Chissels of real creation in random winds and runover leftovers of the weather.



Of whom to write but strange nightingales, swans, peacocks, ducks in the bassin of my memory(?). The mystery of language and computers. They don't equate.



A typewriter to remember.