I need only dive in a sea of potential meaning, fish for a description, a new adjective manifest in musical vibrations, from Avant Garde keynotes pouring into the cabin.
So I drive on, protected in a bubble of steel and glass, the inner sea swishes against its walls.
Words to give substance, while the horizon turns an angle; the skyline slips behind dull buildings; the ground tilts, and suddenly, this planet might not be as round. I might be traveling along new geometries, passing between time lines, liquid meanings difficult to grasp. Vibratory air waves focus my gaze beyond the windshield’s view, yet the realness of the late morning light prevails on my warm cheeks.
Time waves merge and part, colliding oceans rise. I take another plunge deeper, and wait underneath the swaying medium. Sounds ripple in the deepest green, ultramarine meanings in the faint glow of refracted light, a new change of tone, escalation to descent.
I’m fishing for messages in a bottle adrift, sent eons ago by faith itself.
Reality presses my lower back against the car seat. Behind my streaked glasses the road pixelates unreal. If only an adjective to bring it down here, to a moment, but it lacks sound of word uttered. Yet, it heaves on the rise, another scale up, another turn of the horizon, at sea, still far from any one shore.