Where Is the Border?

Carrying drift wood, the empty souls drew a line. Twice hither, neither thither. The mice followed suit, unbuttoning layers of abstractions until the bright bone shone through and lit the souls alive. They danced in a field of black, waves penetrating the senses becoming the senses, being. A metal door unhinged itself. The border unveiled its true colours, fixating the cosmos, driving the parrots mad as bats in a lamborghini. The field weakened at the thought of capitalism. True colours lay down as eggs, smooth waves yawned and shot tentacles with ruby eyes into the lightning storm and caressed the car with infinite solitude. Germany sprung from the phoenix’ soul dust. Reloading, it said: “Nick ta mere”, which means “F yo mama”. The mice erected a statue of Napoleon in response and held hands. They shouted in barbarian and looked hither. This is where the border is! By this time, the empty souls, that were now filled, because of the mice unbuttoning their suits, had ironically finished building the boats and decided to kill their new-found Gods. Germany was in uproar, the parrots had gone back to sleep. Only the cosmos could save them now. But he was busy.

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