R/ckets and S/ntries

success is the music, the watery music. the sweet smell of bagpipes, or coronation, or the fluttery grasses, all given in a tempo far exceeding rational extent. the universe carries distance to great lengths, or an equally silly statement. we're bound by the approximate, which the aliens infer from our every action. the aliens, who the fuck are they? are they angry like we are? are they indictment? do they deliver Bao Dai to Vietnam, sweep Idi Amin towards Uganda, and sell ugly presidents into turf war procedures? might they take notes while we receive wisdom? who can tell? the pressure of resistance sometimes doesn't make it. a reliable treatment seems absurd, and simply unlikely. bombs all over Vietnam were simply administration, like the death of children. let the aliens tell us what the simulation of song is, while we blend into the horizon. our pattern is obvious if not easy to read. slight violins provoke a tear, and old ways die. the aliens are moments away, sometimes, bearing tempo to the end. our own categorical loss smells of smoke, a rich dedication. our sentences are stream, with entry and rocket and a veritable green.