Like flour on the music

Small, smaller, smallest. All the details slide on the surface of something perfect, and stop. You're baking the bricks of your own mind, trying not to make them stick to your fingers. Smile alright, put the dirty cd in the player and let it start. Automatically, time is not of your concern anymore. Take a deep breath, and look at the perfection of that frown. The delight of the perplex expression on his face, the way we all lift our eyes towards the sky and shake our heads when some absurdity floats through the air, in the vicinity of our ears. Aint we beautiful, judging silently and chewing wisdom behind closed lips? Night-and-day creatures in a restless search for that infinity we never could get to imagine anyways. And than we explode. Whoom. The minuscule pieces of ourselves fall down again, just like flour. They land on the surface of that something perfect. Not to stick our fingers to it. Again. Againer. Againest.