David Lynch - Strange and Unproductive Thinking

See David Lynch Theatre - Painting.

"Sometimes in the evenings a feeling of the type which haunts young children

In the forest will come in on a dark wind, and all the light will fade

Leaving a low sound penetrating the eyes, which follow the dark shapes

Running for safe nests just out of reach of small white teeth and noses

Filled with dirt going up over the mountains covered with tall trees and

Green needles and red bark with pitch oozing out into the air, which dries

It on the surface causing it to become crusty which allows for the

Protection of all that lies within the crust, for it will now remain liquid

And hold itself remaining in a state close to that of the pure essence

Which will remind us of home, which will remind us of the red cookie-jar,

And the smiles dancing around in the golden Winter afternoons, while the pipe

Puffs out small clouds of smoke from the mouth of the father with an axe to

Cut wood growing on the tall mountains."

From Linda Faludi's post of yesterday.