Hay Day. White tiles and quiet streets.

Likened like a specter of physical feelings, tied to the consciousness swimming in its own malaise like a psyche sick with the decadence of its own undoing. The phantom takes the notion and pins it to the ether hanging by the door, an apron, an element, a protective clothe with a neck strap worn when washing the dishes.

Sewn and quartered, tea cupped and caked soaked afternoons run into long and tired evenings, just so you can perk up and shout in my face, demanding to retire to the balcony. Theres a bottle on the kitchen bench but you still prefer the flask.

You'd like to unwind but I prefer your tights.

Its momentary domesticity of an ever expanding field all felt with thoughts and intangible edges, stretching in static, throughout the all and into the nothing, perpetual kinetic stasis: coddled by the possibilities we skirt around reality.