Vertiphon - Bola. The bus arrives, finally. Boarding is a chore. And where to today, Johnny? To the drudgery of school? The monotony of mail service? Perhaps. All of them feasible options. But I know you care not, Johnny. For you the destination has already been decided. The path is not yours to walk. For the Drifter, place is moving, and place is fixed. Return to your seat. Return to the hermitage. The only home you will ever know. Return here and wait. And see.
Reprise. Another boarding, another departing. How many of them look as the same to you, Drifter? How many of their faces just like the ones before it? So complacent now in your huddled reverie at the back of this bus. They all appear as dark smudges against a backdrop of upholstery blue and metallic gray. What farce to let pass. The artist surely enraged. His masterpiece made nothing but a cacophony of colors. All screaming to be heard. Given life.
Pfane Pt1 - Bola. It is a sad sight, isn't it, Drifter? Seeing these people as blots on a landscape. How much more beautiful would this scene be in their absence? Without their odorously scented bodies and often crow-like squawkings. No longer a cacophony but a chorus of willful defacement. Each new face acting as the newest graffiti on this otherwise scene of serene. But wait, Johnny. Are you not among their kind as well? No? The Drifter, you say. Ah, what a humbled position to fill, I must say. Here, placed among them, yet so far removed from them. Always the observer, never the actor.
Atomontage - Gridlock. But wait, Drifter. Look! A face, no, a person even! Hair dyed amber, fingernails bright, clothing equal parts chain and fabric. A person unique. Follow with the eyes. Follow quietly. Not alluding to your presence. Allow her naivety. Allow yourself a glimpse at this painting's beauty. Watch the anomaly of her presence. And allow a grin at this defiance. Not allowing herself to be a simple smear, but a form, a texture, a veritable centerpiece! Watch in awe. And forget time.
Pfane Pt2 - Bola. Look now, Drifter. Another approaches, one so like the girl next to you. Watch this form, too. Watch them both. Then watch in horror and disgust as another pure figured is stained, smudged, and smeared once again. Features eroded by uniformity. Textures dulled in association. Left to find her place in the now so benign and banal backdrop of ambiance and function of the bus. Defiance murdered. Wondering. I know you are, Johnny. How this painting will look by time's end. How many pure figures will there be left? Or, just as here, will the individualality become a forgotten plane of existence?
Done Processing - Gridlock. Sigh, once again, and calm. Let the fear of erasure pass and return to your post. You are the drifter. Your presence already removed, your existence secured. Your destination void. Travel with this bus. Step in its walks. Let it carry you to wherever, and remain unaware. Sit and sleep. Watch at whim. Regard the renegades. Enjoy in the endlessness of your task, for it is sure to never end. Perhaps, one day, though, a creature shall come aboard. One of such startling presence and unchallenged uniqueness that they may even be said to be found. And in that state, perhaps, they may even speak to you. Free you from your contemplative seclusion. "Let the other lost sheep go, drifter. Look here, and see the saved."
Reprise. Another boarding, another departing. How many of them look as the same to you, Drifter? How many of their faces just like the ones before it? So complacent now in your huddled reverie at the back of this bus. They all appear as dark smudges against a backdrop of upholstery blue and metallic gray. What farce to let pass. The artist surely enraged. His masterpiece made nothing but a cacophony of colors. All screaming to be heard. Given life.
Pfane Pt1 - Bola. It is a sad sight, isn't it, Drifter? Seeing these people as blots on a landscape. How much more beautiful would this scene be in their absence? Without their odorously scented bodies and often crow-like squawkings. No longer a cacophony but a chorus of willful defacement. Each new face acting as the newest graffiti on this otherwise scene of serene. But wait, Johnny. Are you not among their kind as well? No? The Drifter, you say. Ah, what a humbled position to fill, I must say. Here, placed among them, yet so far removed from them. Always the observer, never the actor.
Atomontage - Gridlock. But wait, Drifter. Look! A face, no, a person even! Hair dyed amber, fingernails bright, clothing equal parts chain and fabric. A person unique. Follow with the eyes. Follow quietly. Not alluding to your presence. Allow her naivety. Allow yourself a glimpse at this painting's beauty. Watch the anomaly of her presence. And allow a grin at this defiance. Not allowing herself to be a simple smear, but a form, a texture, a veritable centerpiece! Watch in awe. And forget time.
Pfane Pt2 - Bola. Look now, Drifter. Another approaches, one so like the girl next to you. Watch this form, too. Watch them both. Then watch in horror and disgust as another pure figured is stained, smudged, and smeared once again. Features eroded by uniformity. Textures dulled in association. Left to find her place in the now so benign and banal backdrop of ambiance and function of the bus. Defiance murdered. Wondering. I know you are, Johnny. How this painting will look by time's end. How many pure figures will there be left? Or, just as here, will the individualality become a forgotten plane of existence?
Done Processing - Gridlock. Sigh, once again, and calm. Let the fear of erasure pass and return to your post. You are the drifter. Your presence already removed, your existence secured. Your destination void. Travel with this bus. Step in its walks. Let it carry you to wherever, and remain unaware. Sit and sleep. Watch at whim. Regard the renegades. Enjoy in the endlessness of your task, for it is sure to never end. Perhaps, one day, though, a creature shall come aboard. One of such startling presence and unchallenged uniqueness that they may even be said to be found. And in that state, perhaps, they may even speak to you. Free you from your contemplative seclusion. "Let the other lost sheep go, drifter. Look here, and see the saved."
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