Ingenious sky. Far from the rabble; traffic lights; edifices; and sidewalk squares, having only just absorbed the vesper shower. Diffracted pale blue tinctured with a drop of desolation. Prestigious bliss, possessed by a dream, as any might visit the parlor room filled with crisscrossing threads of opium smoke where the cosmic jester elucidates his tragedy nonchalantly.
A ribbon of cream, stripes through the light blue room memorizing its transience. The deranged ambience is nimbler than the white band. The cloud-cream folds over in a triad of ruffles, annexed by the cloud-head juggernaut. In this nepotist realm such languid pieces of the vault hardly vaunt over the sidewalks, as silhouettes intercalate with fractious zig-zags, in a silent maelstrom. A heteroclite shrieks. The sky is a waif’s thin elbow in repose, encompassing far, an innuendo that fades in infinity.
The protruding cloud-head is etched in many instances with short lines of faint shade. The head would appear as a carnation, were its folds crisper, instead it is a philosopher’s bust. A contemplative demiurge on the verge of awaking and grazing the world with his silent serum, each note of which is ensigned with his epithet: ‘sempiternal.’ The marks on the head are drawn from pencils ejaculating cerebrally where the etchings spill over with this otherwise carnation; with the ream of light papers of the cloud realm. Levitous enervation; specious citadel; inert mastiff carved and written with the ink of seven archangels commanded by the Darkened Lord of the skies who is now fashionably late…