Pimming Swool Saga's Forum experimental reality

Everything I wrote was an experiment. Or was it? Now these twists and turns are becoming real. The pods have gained their shape through the shadow of the moon that is cast beyond the windows of the glass where they are held.
I'm not really a writer. There's a tapeworm in my head like a control room with buttons and there are strings attached there because I am a marionette of thoughts.
The spaceship has landed. The man and woman are getting out. What do they do next? recreate. revolutionize. love.

::cool::
the pods i see, the devoured seed, under the tire swing in the future world, a reality more than ligth, but then of life. I can see the pods open and children crawl out, covered in mucus and goo we should wash them off, but the sticky stuff is too cute, like honey, sweet smelling memories of the past are our space fuel, one day less imagination, the next day real power.

do you ever think of what happens when the giant DNA seed of Gia Wen drop from the sky? Any sky, the suns of a million worlds burning the atmosphere of strange alien worlds, do they even know who the real alien is? the creatures on the surface or the longing burried with in. He opens his eyes and becomes confussed again, she parts her lips, there is a suction sound as the outside air ruches inside of her lungs. He would only be the air if it was possable to pick her up and fill her with life. Prana? the Fire from inside? Is he even still alive? she picks up his limp body. Maybe it is the small size of the planet, or maybe she is fueled by Love, he is light as a feather. She carrie4s him from the crash site. Like a broken incubator. She is his Mary, a million times over. Religion has dripped from the soul, only life death and love exist on this new found primordial Planet. The trees are a canapy, the sun is the ushur, this is the wedding march of Human & Plant. Yin & Yang. Will either of them remember this if they have to wake up? I dont know....It has already been a thousand years and they are both sleeping sound again, benith the Floral Skies.

The longing buried within has always been the thing- a fierce creature from the beginning of time, its jaws will disintegrate when you bathe in its hold like the certainty that he knows exists and she knows as well.
Maudlin, or mantra?
The sun is a melancholy metaphor of disguise; there for glory and the ruins of the wasteland which was now mundane in the finding of another, then this crash site. But why had they fallen?
He becomes confused because for him it's all or nothing. From the beginning of the prophecy, the card he was once before, the man, the woman, the creatures, vastness in the dark, life and love and death entangled with the breeze of winds which could once be heard; this place was now of uncertainty, but never cold.
The coals beneath the moonlit path of this moon, which saved her once before...