suburbia holds more than you care for

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Ah well I can still burn fires into train windows and return to a hearth stoked with knotted roots.
Experimenting. The picture of reality that has been built is built here.
Looking for a home. Home is moving.
But a window on the world.
The entire moment of one’s life and der Funke happiness caught at dawn.
Glass is molten sand.
Fires still burn in train windows like a red squirrel, or Lego; all coiled, shimmering sparks.
A brain preserved in formaldehyde, rose tinted; life has been boxed; long pouring petrol down Lochs.
Conflagration of snakes take to fire, twist. Wait on platforms whose journeys only lead deeper and deeply into your own dream.
Spiral after spiral of light.

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