As the tears well up his facade begins to crumble. He can't even tell if there is humor or horror or some sweet selection of the two behind this outburst. No, he isn't beside himself the way some might be; he is miles away from himself. He gazes upon the scene before him: dozens of screaming children emerging from rabbit holes holding remnants of animals extinct stream across a lawn of broken bottles and hot coals. Steam slowly lazing upwards makes secret designs in the vibrating air. Breathing like a plains beast the atmosphere pulses, making the sunshine seem as though it is casting a room aglow with simulacrum lighting of citrus blood orange. Debutante centerfolds gape open under pop of camera fizzle and saturated images are created under direction of mustachioed, carpet-chested, and altogether greasy men keeping their hands thrust tight in their polyester pants. The pressure system bubbles outward; his ears detect shifting air mass problems and the wind sucks out around him: the tears flow. The tears flow and he doesn't know whether he's laughing or crying. Dreamscape depression pulls taut his heartstrings; yet joy tears his tears out. Like a nightmare aura turned anxious post traumatic sedative, he keeps the little pet of sadness love held in his lap for further use. A desperate polyemotional cage match rages on in his mind. Dreamt for lightyears these two fighters hold one another at bay like two lovers starcrossed with whiplines. Lashings cut deep into worn pewter, carved out of soapstone he is a sculpture worn through days of storm. While he stares out across the carnage carnival before him a deception grows over his eyes; milky white cataracts bloom flaming as sunspots. Dripping dry held high, he's seeing the nexus of the human condition for there isn't a division between loss and gain to be spoken of. The river of time, experience, problems, obligations; it floods over high water marks and runs his ragged existence threadbare. He's lost distinction.
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