surrealism

the fog paints everything in shimmering silky grey. palmtrees lose their pathetic vacation look, they gain degrees of mysteriousness, of history, stories, whispered in the wind of old days.
The fake gas fueled fire flickers and flimmers in the cold. Those logs will never grow old, they will never burn down, they will never give birth to anyone or anything. They will hardly keep me warm or sooth me with crackeling noises. They have a long but hard life. Nothing I ever would wish for.
A song appears through the mist, it might be an old soul song, about love, about now or never, or the doors, screaming into the arriving dawn.
It is amazing how many layers of memories a song can carry on its waves. Ah, how it manages to sway me back into strange, old emotions, old truths that changed their faces so many times, that transformed from the excitement of newness and youth into the forlorn whispering of the old.

It's as if surrealism is taking over reality in strange flickering and fickle sounds....painted, no, smashed against a dirty, plain, grey fogwall. with frogs jumping all over


When the music is over....turn out the lights....(Jim Morrison)