Bubbles can’t survive long in the currents, winding invisible paths from one thing to another. Wanting nothing, leaving only their filmy layer, white and flaking against the wind. Short-lived, forgotten, easily replaced with a second breath through the circle of time. Only the most naked eye, keenly spying the intricate web, sees the merit in their silent flight. Watch as they pass, breathing clues, taking time across the apex, into celestial spheres. Microgasmic, euphurous, unidentified voices, clear to listening ears, stitched in the heavens forever.
Blowing Bubbles
