Seth Jason Leslie

I lost my wallet in a grain of salt . . It was nobody’s fault . . Yet, I was torn. Split on what to do . .
I think that I was at Bomb Harbor. Though it might have been Terra Incognita . . I guess that I really don’t know the name of the place . . The name doesn’t matter though. It never really matters. What matters are the facts, naked and bare . . Stripped of words and names.
A feast for the consumer of the eye . . For those who believe what they believe . . Because, well . . They believe it.
Then to . . The transmissive potentialities of magnetism . . Quiet transferences of images shed from archetypes . . Like flakes of mica . . Hammers thrown to diseased children for their future loss of memory . . While problems find refuge and even comfort in a range grown fresh from meaning . . Alternatively, happiness in general is dependent on way too many factors subsisting on illusion . . Breath drawing on the habits of deer and headache inducing perfumes and colognes . . All alone in a basket of rocks.
Peter built with a message found in any given sand-castle . . Wake now or something will do it for you. Keep in mind that you’ve probably started the process of falling asleep since the most recent “Big Awakening” . . Rolling, flowing down the mountain like water . . Like the day itself.
There are Medicine Wheels in the hearts that beat for nature alone . . The systems of man are corruptible . . What is incorruptible is irresistible.