Wood pecker

Here in fidelity to life we have stretched our own selves,our shadows at noon soon trailing past us. Nothing happens day and night by ongoing recall of existence.

Our books are Warholean art on their way to maximalist creations with verisimilitudinous detail who did where , what and why with many a how’s explaining.

Our phone happens on a ring ,a morning ritual of dissecting men in yawning daily rituals ,their common most ablutions painted as earth’s revolutions

Our tales are by way of acknowledgements of existences, boring tiny holes in time and holes will vanish in bigger holes,in empty spaces. Nothing happens except in time.