Weave 3

I've been writing on a thin line that expands outward the more words that escape my fingers not thinking but rolling in a landscape of scary monsters, winding about me are sounds and screens and strings of light that organize themselves automatically based on weather patterns and predictions of the future from bizarre and bearded older gentlemen sitting in dark and mystical corners sipping tea and staring off into space with cobweb minds they think themselves into oblivion by riding waves of madness that never end into a space that never stops with people who never talk, only look over their shoulder at the birds eye view of total destruction that escapes even the strongest hearts and souls.