THE URBAN SURREALIST

The shut up should stay in and the inn should shut up.  I was a mussel in a shell.  Caught up in a net of an inept fisherman, so easily tangled that his feat fell off.  How awkward and worded.  An attic full of dreams is not what it seems. It's a gateway to the lower dens, where the lights are glittering and darkness never falls. Just a trip on stairs, taken unawares. That is the downfall, the step off the right direction. The surrealist is a realist. Not an ally with a list. I can no longer carry the weight of meaning, so I let it go. Going, going, never gone.