3RD EYE CITE give’s you the reader the ability to view gifted jewels amongst stories. They are not just reference clicks, but carefully picked idiom-shrooms. Click them gently and with intrigue. They help keep the pathway clear and give guidance, especially in such dense windy word forests. Temporary lost is a given, more than that, and well have to sent for help. Maybe. Blue jewels will inform, enlighten, add musical delicacies -complementary moods and phrases, crack jokes or provide nibble interest’s to other menu’s. Guiding you to other embedded stories with cite of a various perspective, leading one on a wild goose chase through an internet labyrinth.. They can also form as snorkel gear, giving breather’s in such deep ocean’s. Or not. But clicking them is highly recommended for smooth reading and an ultimate first class storytelling experience. Enjoy…
Drifting deeper into uncharted wild. Records reduced in size, to dangle just below earlobes. Bellowing. Nose gateway’s clearing snow and debris, leaving mostly raw refuge and a few twigs. Grown with a destiny to snap.
The Jimsonweed. A scent that cruised on empty. Through pastoral lands, mostly when others were asleep. Helpless bodies lying in broken home’s trying to dream, always falling short, choosing to cuddle Dreamgenii’s instead. Handed down from past breeders in the extended family. Softening dusty dead realities of carbon based lifeforms, never at ease; passionless.
Local bug’s always try to dent the hardy exterior of a Jimsonweed, but non of which have been highly successful. Hole’s have been made before though, some shaped as arrows and others try-hard love hearts. Cut-out lightning bolts predicting future storms. But such hole’s were considered charismatic here. Oddly shaped mandala scars. Hole’s and cracks evident only on bottled Jimsonweed skin. Whereby potent odours seep. Smoulder. And attract peculiar moths; direct.
Once unlocked, with a rare key, of threaded heart vein feelers, the deep-boot cannot and will-not make for easy containment. Even coins are fearful they won’t find a surface to sing ting to, after being flicked by curious fingers and self preserving rigmarole. Some coins, though, jumped from purses in moments of self sacrifice. Smiling as they plummeted, feeling original winds cleanse them of dusty wallet’s. Feeling safer in free fall than the confines of pocket banks. Hopeful but doused in uncertainty that they may land in yet another wallet. The ones with hard dust and rude coins.
The edges of boots such as this were always found encrusted in sugar laden-beady eyes, dribbling in awe soaked fear. Newspaper napkins far out of reach. And giggling at how far out of reach they were. Unfortunately, almost all observers lacked necessary Boot knowledge. Deep-Boot knowledge. Or to be more precise. Jimsonweed Deep-Boot knowledge. Either onlookers had only ever worn work shoes, forced feet into shapes that didn’t fit, or had never been barefoot. Barefoot on earth found in boots. Smelly Jimsonweed Deep-Boots. Where toes can spread and wriggle underground to make tunnels and compost. Such boot forms, internally upholstered in rich earthly textiles, cause coins to unwrap. At places just out of view.
As coins unwrap, naked wings unfold, the rare sphinx moth is revealed. Sticking as static to Jimsonweed’s decedent edges. Hair follicle’s sliding into pop lock’s around beats so dirty they had to be washed. Music dressing up for the occasion; mu5ic. A registration reflecting the sum of all 5 sixth-senses. Equations solving their own answers to musical scents that Jimsonweed loved, kind of. Although, sometimes doubt layed its necessary eggs, because beauty this soft, this raw, this perfect, seemed somewhat impossible…
Cautious mother’s ears were urged to prick upward amongst such hum’s in dense overgrowth. But they carried on with dinner preparation. The kind that involve Blackbirds. Pastry. And dinner table wow factor.
Doubt Breath turned ON Fresh
Fingers were itchy and their nail bed’s wore clouds; nothing to do with a zinc deficiency. Skies breathing sounds and crying on self love umbrellas. Still tatty from last season’s storm. Sometimes, probably as rare as never, does a Jimsonweed feel slightly in out of it’s own depth. Looking down, to check if laces were tied, and able to make a quick dash. If need be. Towards the finish line, when the event hadn’t even begun. Running, well more of a trod, wound up. Was always thought to be the most suited option. Especially when presented with moths that enjoyed dancing. Barefoot. With watches that kept no time, no place to be, or were very much at home both alone or if desired, in amongst Jimsonweed breath.
Aluminium question’s basked on chests of both moth’s and flower’s alike. Resting delicately on ribs that encased passionate hearts. Such question’s trying to give faces the most natural shade of tan possible. But they were not alarms, such question’s and could not awaken beings from being burnt. If sleep prevailed. So together they questioned such questions, as well as giving the Answer: dead ants, to other irrelevant questions.
Moth feelers reach out to sooth the Jimsonweed. Soft caresses, near doubt breath, indicating that territories such as these were also uncharted. For this peculiar individual moth, anyway. Unmarked. Unmapped skies. Aviation never attempted.
Gum this minty, swishing amongst such rare moth saliva, was the type sure to make bubbles. One’s that filled with helium and caused Jimsonweeds to take flight. Hot breath, firing its accent up into the clouds. Where bubbles burst, boots stomp and stamp. Finding themselves trod in gum and sticking to places so fresh, they didn’t mind.
Warm fresh Breeze