The Vestige of Fifty-Five Words Per Minute

Solvent light diminishes metaphorical seconds, wiping them with a blur–a stroke–a motion, challenging the wings of emotion to pulse and live, To etch and carve something in a flight of furor, in a whirlwind haze of hapless thoughts in apropos. A sound made in arresting touches of flesh on plastic and in the vestige of fifty-five words per minute I listen to the swift, cool rush of bodiless thoughts; formed, reformed; given unto the cerulean glow, like an offering of the internal to the exponential. Ripped from juxtaposition and highlighted in blue, a shadow morphs into absently coruscated fog, crystalized in the act of inciting jubilant ruminations. A cackle amidst a gaggle of jabbering voices, and jovial extractions alight succulent glows of nascence. He is born. My twin sired with the conscious decision to smile whilst I type and in the glow, he is pressed–animated–on the wall, like a moving hypothesis for the enigmatic muse. Dancing like figments in the light of imagination, he sits as I do; enfolded in the cerulean glow that refreshes and renews.