Furnaces ignite the brain with ideas to change, morph, add somehow to the prophetic visions of the chaotic collective astral plane, a reality-eating glorious monster. Madness lighting our way through this lower hell plane we are forced to walk, this tunneled dark, this hole in the ground.
Nevertheless, we push up through the dirt and the dungeons to the surface. Conditioned for quick conclusions, we miss that slow inner beat of the mind bursting forth to the sixth dimension, the firework generation lifts off to the seventh sun.
Though these viruses may attack our nervous systems, we collide together and plead that the rain will seep through us, making us whole again and then standing in the sun for a moment to catch our breath.
I stamp the earth in my resolution to shiver awake those sleeping beauties and winged seraphim snoring through the torture of the downtrodden, the suffering magicians of our day. Embody the drenching electric, dance the droid out of our senses, we feel again the air brush up against us. For a moment, gravity eludes us and we are free to roam the collective continent.