Beauty is in the eye of the tiger balm. Mysterious concoction made not from the gristle, gargle or fat of tigers, but of other, more mundane ingredients. Such as a sniff of intensity, burning desires and a spread of concentranlasted heat.
Patch weak cure for what ails most of the falling few who choose to latch onto the lip of the bark plate. Deep rubbing into the wound or hole of the soul links up the hope with a sense of burning nostril hairs. Respite from the pain last no more than a minute or two and crashes the mind into a state of delirium when the highs burn the wings of the naked fire.
Leaves them laughing as the others gather on pooling the spill to feed and fuel the others in camp. No sense in letting the rich soul bearing body to break the circle.
Of course it never makes sense. That's what it's all about.
Dreams make for nightmares can't they?
Written on Wednesday, 17 January 2007