discrete blasts of inevitable soundwaves

take your time to measure the horizon. it's sunday the trees should be silent; the palms of earth. water sends energy to its enemies. the is the anticipated war. no one will ever survive this. picture your own death again. without a sound. this is the anticipated parable. a lonesome old man opens his umbrella. it displays a face. no eyes, no teeth. just the horrifying surface of the landscape, which erased your signature from the book.

::: forced to recourse to the past and future for supplemental satisfactions :::