Sitting meditation-style, tanning the backs of your forearms, blissing out to the simplest rays scorching skin; arms on chair handles and feet immersed in grains of sand. And you think of the breakdown process of all that sand. Harsh waves smashing into bars, shells defleshing into salt or mineral: matter. Mind-surfing into pure blue wakes of curls, foamed at the tip, and writhing into a flat/surfaced graze landing. Ripe tides suck thoughts as the ocean breeze chills your hairs. Stares from beaks and insatiable streaks of neon orange… maybe it’s what you’re wearing. How about that? And that mist in the air.
Ooo you hear in off-key melody, vocalized by beach bakers, as a plane flies by and reads on its tail, “World’s Largest Foam Party Sat. – July 13th. Tix at Websterhall.com.” She turns to you with that nahh look, but your thumbs-up reaches the sky, maybe. You then flick, draw, and sear into another brain bubble, auraing a conch of noise roaring waves, passing light beyond the seen. It’s your hit. Let’s reach SOLARIUM MISCELANEA MILENIUM together, while speaking in Afrika Pseudobruitismus tongues. -cmonster/tiny mix tapes