in there you begin to lose the sense of time, the sense of creativity, the sense of reality, the sense of everything. everything that happens happens as if it has never happened while things never happened happens as if it has indeed happened. day and night seem to be the same state of mind, so is fast and slow. step on the floor, on where you would like to believe the floor is- it is that or about 100 meters of void between the closest thing beneath- step on the floor and it melts. the air is thickened by abandoned hopes. the smell of dying wishes outlined by rusty red trails on the plain white walls- ah, almost, almost still alive that there is a pinch of pleasantness in the scent, almost a scent, in the, stench.

you see, 'there' has become a place where it does not matter, in fact it does not matter where like mosquitoes matter not in the eyes of bears, or salmon in frogs'. it is just there. one goes in there, not on, not out of, also into. silky trees- in fact they are wrapped around by silky tears, blue silky tears of different shades depending on the occasion and reason. tiny broken dolls find their peace of mind, but never of their bodies on the floor where he looks for his piece of mind. deep green canvas jacket and bright orange trousers- a few pieces of cellophane here and there, the dolls were once not what you think they are. people were always once not what you think they are, so were things. in there the soft, melting ground sparkles, a grossly abundant mine of jewels- how explosive, tears of fairies and pixies. and time, it is when the concept of almost becomes almost so useful that it is almost indispensable. time has almost stopped. there sits time on top of his little sand dune of philosophical contemplations, burning life away fueling his heart-aching troubles, dragging everything else down- dragging everything else stationary, at least, maybe not down.

the universe does not go in one straight line, even if it does one has the feeling it does not. pacing here and there, back and forth, up and down, left and right, to and from, in and on the same space hoping the fabric might be torn at some point on the line, the route, the track and something, anything even almost, almost like nothing would be different, all different. walking here and there, back and forth, up and down, left and right, to and from, in and on the same space hoping the fabric might be torn at some point on the line, the track and something, anything even almost, almost like nothing would be different, all different. walking here and there, back and forth, left and right, up and down, to and from, in and on the same space hoping the fabric might be torn at some point on the line, and something, anything even almost, almost like nothing would be different, all different. i think i have found my answer to that.

i remember seeing a vortex, a real one on paper. i liked that vortex because it was a product of intriguing frustration, an involuntary expression of affinity towards another bigger vortex in a box. nonetheless an irregular one just like 'there'. it was even labeled vortex just to be sure. in the vortex there are scary fishes as gifts but it does not matter. it was a good vortex and the scary fishes are actually quite cute. on my right hand bad vortices do not produce eggs like hens nor mammals. and life has become a vortex within a forest of metal fan blades. whirl, whirl creep, whirl thud, yak, whirl kaboom, crack crawl float, camera finger, sizzling mechanical chowder with clams and broccoli. that about how the vortex sounds like from within, deep within as if this is what the centre, the heart of the vortex- the vortex itself will hear. at least that's what i heard.