Experiential logos

Unintended chattering of teeth and recalcitrant effigies clash and divide that which was blissful into primitive warfare. The house is disconnected from the temple; the mechanical spring heats up and burns with parental intuition. The screaming of the senses bursts forth and is somehow connected to the slight twitches and pangs of the soup. As it boils and bubbles atop flames, the word rises from its depths, "Logos."

It gathers around a wooden table with burn marks atop the oak, indicating a cold manic addiction birthed from shivers of disdain. "We are told to be men, so we take the thought of thought and mold it around the ones deemed as such." "We can read, we can write." "We are better than the livestock." Laughter fueled by the single mother and a father who was never home seeps through the wooden walls, and once let loose, is expected to have an effect, yet it never does. A young man with a bejeweled crimson eye sleeps. Violins play deep within the cracks and crevices of his mind. And as the heart dons a smile, the soul knows his warmth cannot be obtained by earthly means.