There is no answer for anything of uneventful relativity.
We waste our moments, pushing a ball of dung up a hill.
How happily we engage in the demolition of the senses, almost as if we wish to forget who we are.
And never be remembered.
At this point, we have a tonal mix of dire consequences.
We have colours that obfuscate our understanding of reality so that, in effect, we live in a dream.
We have the hibernation of our sensibilities.
We have a characteristic absence of feeling.
We live in the darkest part of the world’s seasonal adjustment disorder.
Our emotions are a reflection of the external appearances they claim as their own.
The domination of aftermaths.
Each day is the aftermath of another – the echo of its disintegrating aspect through a never-ending process of returning starting points.
There is a detachment from the unifying silence of everything.
Sometimes, we just crave the noise of winter.
We are wayfarers through the churning void.
Of lights and shades that engulf the prospects of everything.
We walk through a series of gloomy shifts (the gloaming) that only Scotland can describe.
Every country has its own defining quality of light.
The world is defined by its representations of genii locorum within the visible conjunctions of localised heliacal resplendence.
By subdivisions of light within light. Its blending of them.
Each one is exceptional within an environment that determines the immaculate tenor of the prospects of everything that are engulfed by them.
Sometimes it seems like automatic writing.
It comes with the willingness of crows to the feast of wet corpses.
It sings through the grid work of the emotions like a cipher.
It follows a process that replicates the endless spontaneity of actions of weather, compiled by a minutia of impacting factors, like an intersecting map of chaos in motion.
The kind of chaos that we secretly wish to live our lives by.
We recoil from the strangeness of the landscapes, wrapping ourselves in the recognisable blend of our presuppositions.
The coldness isn’t there.
A visceral warmth permeates the world with a smear of yearning for a winter that never comes.
This is the manufacturing emphasis of the human influence – a reality of seasons injected with industrial decay and the disorientating effect of a lack of adherence to blindingly obvious obligations.
There is no manifestation of withering – only a bland nonentity of crippled weather.
Platitudes of rain across Border hills.
Refinements of a downpour, shifting without elaborations, like a leaking engine.
Skylines are throttled by the abstract notions of economic downturns.
The clouds resemble a disturbance of industrial filth.
The sky is an indistinguishable mass of disgruntled techniques – a parsimony of visual forms, a reluctance of vapours.
Meaningless clusters of Cromwellian artifacts litter the streets in disputes of cultural decay.
The demolition of stratocumulus indicates a desire for the world to obliterate the townships of Northern England – a place where daydreams meet their end.
A shift in the fabric that causes a rift in the imposition of certainty.
We live in the non-remain of a fragment – a sigh expressed, not in a breath, but in a language of implosion – a wormhole cutting a dash through time.
There follows a period of mild inducements to the atmospheric disintegration of winter – a dissolution of its once solid heart of hardcore enterprise.
It is a god that dies a lonely death of inefficacious grandeur.