11/30/2019

Floyd
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Floyd
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The hallucination of an aisle in the ether
Concentrate on the needles of the pines that protrude into your room, further and deeper, how they crackle and crackle and whistle and burst, how menthol-fresh ointments ethereally resin you before rushing rain extinguishes the crackling and washes the camphor of the pines into the ground.
Moments, minutes have just passed, full of fist-thick drops that clap on the forest floor, where you kneel, squatting with your hands in earth, breathing its dark scent archaically, guessing the place of experience attentively. Soon the tangy green sapwood of a pine begins to circulate, patchouli unwinds warmer and deeper, resins flow sweetly along the bark of a soft, slightly smoky fir. Then the orange scents of the small mistletoes, nesting pale on branches and creepingly concealing the scenery, glow and smear the forest's naturalness over an incense stick. Now and then that blows quietly in threads a gentle aisle into your sluggish ether, the imagination hallucinates a journey into your big city apartment to spare.
Unfortunately this lasts only a few hours, it whispers very close, then it is gone.
Moments, minutes have just passed, full of fist-thick drops that clap on the forest floor, where you kneel, squatting with your hands in earth, breathing its dark scent archaically, guessing the place of experience attentively. Soon the tangy green sapwood of a pine begins to circulate, patchouli unwinds warmer and deeper, resins flow sweetly along the bark of a soft, slightly smoky fir. Then the orange scents of the small mistletoes, nesting pale on branches and creepingly concealing the scenery, glow and smear the forest's naturalness over an incense stick. Now and then that blows quietly in threads a gentle aisle into your sluggish ether, the imagination hallucinates a journey into your big city apartment to spare.
Unfortunately this lasts only a few hours, it whispers very close, then it is gone.
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