It’s a corporation of paper clips, an army of post-its.
Sometimes listening to music is like listening to torn pieces of paper stuck haphazardly all over the board. You listen and lose yourself in it and then you emerge bewildered.
An army of paper clips marched by the office today. They came with straight suits and clean lapels. An army of post-its walked by today. They wore yellow hats that twirled in the non-existent breeze.
She was in black today. Like the full moon in black.
The photocopier’s floating by, afloat in a constellation of rubber stamps, hot words and a full moon in black. Silent black. Photographs in monochrome printed on expensive sheets of draft.
An army of paper clips marched by today, and walked right up to reception. An army of paper clips demanded. They banged tubular metal arms on wood and spoke in loud rasps. Little bobs of upturned wool scurried about looking for meals. We set the room on fire.
