Stories

 

Most stories are places;

One-dimensional they exist,

Not changed by the wind, 

All smashed by the man.

 

Observe the madhouse:

Blank, repetitive, asphyxiating,

Keeps you from the outside!

 

Look at that portaloo:

Plastic, cheap, efficient,

It fits your busy life!

 

What about those lofts?

Well-planned, mild, compatible, 

They’re just what you need!

 

But, well, I’m just the seller.

They do all fall apart,

See it by yourself.

 

I have no place, I live nowhere.

I follow the wind and carve it with stones,

Golden stones, they don’t go down.

 

It looks useless, with weird shapes, undefined reason.

I don’t know what I build, I don’t look down.

I trust the wind and it makes it perfect.

 

The man comes in and cracks some stones.

The base’s falling.

Everything’s shacking, unstable.

Is it all gonna fall apart?

 

The wind comes in, it tells me:

“Some stones here, some stones there”.

Everything’s even, everything’s balanced.

We're on our way to heaven