perfect day

“Late Night” by Syd Barrett

A sunset forthcoming. Interposed between reveries and announced traffic signs. Curves, asteroids, diamonds, reminiscences. Sulphur times reclaiming. The sun. The sun is. Jumping down. Purples and emotions. In full bloom. Chucked out. Of the frame. Of his real purposes, fuck. Of the ongoing weeks. With much, very much. Intensity. His fragilit(ies). Vulnerable. Desires. Until a moon could say. “Hey. Just look. It sucks. Lick the asphalt. Off your fingers. And…never mind.” Everyday explosions on the streets. Houses and headaches. He keeps wondering. And trudges on. Enticed. “Oh. The town looks different. It’s lightened. With the need. For the sun…shine.” He loves the sun. He loves the purples. He loves you. There’s unfortunately. Imagination overmuch. He knows. He sees. And syntaxes. Unfilled with chains. Ads intertwined. The fear of the chill. Unfastened from stepping into. Halls of hope. Shared Sun…days. Warmly. Dearly. The myriad dreams, promises, poetry in the moonligh. Each single corner he traverses. Is like…a petal-pulling impertinence. The traffic signs of the day. They weren’t that eventful. That’s fine. Things and their images. Things casting no shadow. Okay. But what has existed. Or won’t exist. As a coin-faced destiny. Swallows him up. Today. The night peeking out. Impressively. As he just wanted. To be quiet. At home. In bed. Giggling at his nothingness, no matter. But imagining. Who cares, he does. Traversing skies, not traffic signs interposed. Or such. Imagining. Just imagining. Like…dreaming? No, like imagining. Which’s like…living. Even the greediest fantasies. Or the gloomiest tic-tac ads. Needle-piercing like anyone’s day is, no matter. Imagining. Living. Touching. Fucking. He would be joyfully. Looking forward to. While the sun went down…