Journeys of empty days

A journey of a million miles starts with a single step taken in the wrong direction moving one away far away from where one wants to get to, getting rid of all the silk and gold wearing only cotton robes that absorb rivers of sweat and ice-capped mountains of the northern land poles apart away from the southern tip of rocks and mountains of ice and fields of clay growing trees of paperweight glass balls with little air bubbles stuck inside them running along veins and nerves that carry electrical impulses with sheets of carbon paper and coffee in brown and the same exact shade of tea with milk and mint leaves or the leaves of mint chamomile chameleons that change colour without breaking into a sweat full-sleeved shirts of industrial origin with lighting and wax crayons inside books kept on bookshelves with dust arranged properly speck after speck after speck in alphabetical order of remembrance of things past of Proust trusting placing washing hands playing marbles in the mud making fun of losers who wear loose pants indistinct chatter after a game of hide and seek and pipsqueak funny speak origin of utopia and the end of a dream where hems of pants are sewn with denim thread and soft beds are for little birds that eat glass eggs and Sulphur oxidized with clouds proud display of medals and trophies and shields near super-computers of tomorrow’s superiority assumed to be in the same sequence as that of the colours of the rainbow full of pink fruits and juice of the same colour perhaps purple