As I was sitting there in the middle of a bubble of music unpenetrable for any human touch, back to the world, a voice came trickling through. Probably the only sound my brain is still capable of registering from the outside. It automatically made my guts churn, for my throat got immune to the clenching sensation crying would induce. And then the lines came serpentiningly, and I just couldn't resist.
You're to good and I'm too bad. We would make a great pair of news, but would neutralize each other within seconds on touch. Impossibility might be the saviour here, bloody, cruel, a butchering bastard, really, but the angelic one. Saving your soul by torturing you.
You look like thunder, like lightning, like a smiling ray of autumn light, sweet and fondling. You irradiate the world. Filtered through decaying life and leaves, you graciously shine on the cheeks of everyone a dashing smile, devoid of feigning, lies, and malice.
And the energy you are of, it's active, yet serene. Endless. Being the source, you rain motivating peace on everyone and still not lose yourself in the process. It's rather miraculous, because you seem to be only this very energy that just happens to have needed a thicker outside layer. It's as if you accidentally put on human flesh. For easier contact. So people wouldn't be blinded by your light.
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