Words played out as pieces of Lego.
Dressing ideas in motley. Dressing them in uniform colors.
They flicker, they die. Leaving an abandoned ruin.
The world revolves ever changing. Words don't stick.
They are stolen, redressed. Their scent changing ever so slightly with time. Changing with those who steal them.
Ever so fragile, ever so important, ever so futile.
The late evening summer laughter travels well across the lake.
The friendship seemingly transcends between human and nature.
The words created it. They imprint on the night's fabric.
The feeling of happiness and brotherhood. All born.
The drunkenness of life is pure. Born from small flickering pieces of plastic.
Why would it ever make sense?
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