It's somewhere south on an atomic timeline. My ears ring with discordances of day, twisting interference lines — cerebral television pinstripe. It seems that other realms beckon me; I hear the ghost of a call in the silent morning. They call me to interact with otherworldly elements, to arrange and rearrange jostling atoms, from behind fluttering lids strobing with unmanifest magnificence. Just a hint of a call. Somewhere south, and the sun stabs warm daggers through glacial blinds always melting but never melt.

To the extent that I am safe from impending catastrophe of fission rewriting the substructure of existence I am complacently happy. In truer glimpses, splitseconds, I buoy or sink from radiated rumrage of animal ignorance. Thinking with its weird stupor — stylized yinyang, wheel of hued moods, codices in antiquated script unraveling themselves in the blue yonder shot through with crimson stripe of sunset. Why is it — always maritime and arid interspersed, meaningless complexities pregnant or bereft of progeny, skull memories and nervine apathy, glorified desperation? Somewhere south — acrid humidity sprays over villa of mood, atmosphere mixed with meatsmoke and dunesmell and gasoline and greenery of eternal youth.

Out there are so many immovable islands, immune to paltry tectonics, indifferent to starswirl of cosmic aeons passing, in myopic tranquility, absorbed in familiar cloudlike slogans of self, each perceiving only itself, hallucinating other-mirages in daydreams like these — delirious, dehydrated — half-dead in the baking inferno, lying on unfamiliar shores where anonymous detritus and grit and seastuff licks at their toes: immovable, yet yearning to be swayed by an imagined wind; indissoluble, yet dreaming of magma's apocalyptic ecstasy — somewhere south of nuclear winter.