Joesepp: lala fiction rises from the white blank mass, a troubling rise of work approaches, less would be more but decisions in time will unravel the future in time in time. what are you doing, why are you reading, what do you seek in the words not your own. an answer a question, is there, is there not. my apologies if i dissapoint it was merely a travel, a travel along a narrow thought, on a rail. A train of thought. Wide blue, skies rare of grey, a cool shade a warm sun, solvents wriggle shadows noxious with the sun, a mask barely enough. But now night, cars push through the dark and still air, little movements from the sinking cold, snow drifts glow in the high country and dew points in the vale. noises of life punctuate the tapping of keys, the tap of a teaspoon and the crumple of plastic packaging. tomorrow we begin again, wrought lead to gold with mere hands, on the way i'll listen to bands, when im finish i'll return to land
lala fiction rises again
lala fiction where it all began
Joesepp: I wind down the window and winter falls to the ground. Giant grey and white caps cloud around and the warm air barely stirs. I am moving through the suburban roads, low flat tiled roofed houses, white fences, no fences, trees, succulents. I pass them, intersections come and go, lights turn from red to green and back again. The roads open up one lane, two, three, merging. The black ribbon highways with wide walls all along - the sedimentary layers dip and rise beside me like dragons swimming through the strata. The verges grow smaller and their whiskery eyes and wild heads dive down under the green turf.