This is the time of winged fire breathers and statues of motion and beaches of rocks without sand. Horses without wheels spin and donkey flocks carry unarmed soldiers into war covered places of blood without sound or shriek.
This is the mystery place. This is the dreamed stop-clock without time. A minute starts without beginning or time or reason to begin-end just a minute later ceases notion and substance.
The realm of call and words spoken are never sound. These same words flow across bands of bounded paper in font digital—and fashion stitched upon silk cloth and imagination.
We form the notion of eternity and dance upon timeless patches of cover underneath the most blue of skies just before rain-dusted night drives us underground to those places of swings and scenes of grass covered deserts in light and sparkle.
So! Escape to this city of oil rain, crumbled towers and rusted color skylines tucked just below sky ceiling. Walk upon the crusted sea and into the days-of-nothing-less.
And! Beautiful you are…