Over the floor sits a colored cardboard city.
Its papyrus streets winding down the cardboard avenues, mansions, and huts.
These streets follow the way down my blurring insight, ending onto themselves after snaking their way around, and thus this picture postcard city of mine has no way in and no way out.
It is walled all around by exquisite cardboard summer-houses with no windows on the externalities.
... My patchwork sock citizens of cardboard city laze around the paper lanes.
My patchwork people with nothing to be scared of, with abundant cardboard corn, endless cardboard sunshine, and cottonwool love aplenty.
But on the cardboard lanes sits a grim fellow with a tiny paper violin and a bundle of pressed flowers in just a tiny cardboard shack to call his own.
My patchwork pressed-flowers, paper-violin guy,
who's apparently cursed.
They say he's suffering from dreams so bizarre and melancholy, he'd set the cardboard town-hall ablaze with merely his ideas.
'if thoughts were alive,' he sings 'they'd be more than just pretty colored cardboard dreams.'
'and thus also the world outside the realms of a paper world, which the pretty summer houses on the countryside, fail to acknowledge.'
my melancholy patchwork guy with surreal dreams as a thought in thin air, or whispers rippling along the surface.
Every once in a while the world sees a loss, tiny calamities taking form,
but the tiny cardboard city with its citizens stays inplace unharmed, un-undone
and yet one day the pressed flowers, paper-violin patchwork guy ceases to exist with his cardboard shack.
The thoughts are ephemeral in even the cardboard world after all.
