Snow, the erasure of the mistaken canvas where carelessness frolicked for so many a moment that eventually time itself faltered to whimsy and broke. It froze over. It laid buried under white, the color o’ oppressor. It buried all the mistakes; they crystallized into an exhibition, candy rocks stirred in a cappuccino of those not mistaken. They stir thoughts of how unmistaken they are, those who rest in homes and rest in beds and rest in each other, the most candlelit of abodes. From the choir lips to the nave, the err of humming comfort ran frothy and congregated like a plague in the pits of a dark belly, where the heat of home belies the bellyfull of sighs from the belfry, where conscience and thoughts of being mistaken died in a flood of cappuccino talk. They look out their stained glass sliding doors from their personal pulpit out into the bygone canvas, erased by snow. They muse on the disappeared world and applauded the magical miracle with their sighs. They didn’t see the man in the front for they were looking too much at the sides.
Snow, it was the beautiful canvas where mistakes pretended to be an aesthetic masterpiece to the unmistaken, faithful in their place in the world inside their homes and beside a cappuccino machine.
The air is heavy with disinterest outside. One would think that the absence of something would make it lighter, but perhaps presence is the revolt to heavy things. He was standing in the heaviness of the brightest day, an island in the whiteness of his world. The sun was out, no obstruction or retort from any cloud or any sadder weather. But, whether light or shadowy weather would weather his interest to stand in disinterest was irrelevant. Relevant was that here he was. Heavy coated and cold emoted, he clutched in his paws an L-shaped loser.
It was a loser of things, and it’s usually lost in mind, but only when people stop to have cappuccino talk. When it is no longer lost in thought, it is because we grow disinterest and that means that interest has died. In finding this gun, lost are important things. It is a loser, held by a loser, for he has lost important things and will now make lost other things.
He has lost many things, this man. He has lost his dignity, the thing pretended in cappuccino talk. He has lost his mind, the thing that wages wars using interest. He has lost his relevance, that thing that shines in cloudy days. He has lost his being unmistaken, for he is mistaken by the unmistaken and lies out in a mistake by a world that makes careless mistakes, especially those who are unmistakably discussing him over cappuccino talk, which is a mistake of an activity.
Is he going to make lost a mistake? To what virtue does the black hole barrel, capturing daylight and relevance and snow in a grievous mistake, uphold when it points down the choir lips, into the nave, of someone making love with disinterest. Whether they wither in their interest because of the cold whiteness or the mocking sun, like snowy teeth beaming, is of no interest to the holder of the loser. The loser is always a cyclical fatality, for everyone loses, but how can something be done with no sense of profitability. Marginal gains are calculated over cappuccino talk. They sit down and discuss the mistakes, accruing numbers and yearly caps, and their choir lips seem to burp up a bellyful of sighs when their eyes turn into black holes and consume all light and all snow and their belfry turns
So lo, go do’ that of which occupies time, which is frozen, and so that’s the only way a person can stare down a black hole barrel and count every mistake that is unmistakably the direct result of disinterest crushing them into a fine snow on a fine sunny day whether the weather shall shape shadow
…………………………………..Have cappuccino talk……………………………. steamy.
Let disinterest forget the mistakes. Forget how the sun transfers from the black hole barrel of a loser into that of eyes and bursts the oppressed belfry and accelerates time from the moment of brain death to the moment of death, and mistakes are nothing more than the things we lost when we buried ourselves under the snow.
We don’t notice it’s a mistake until it’s sanguine.