yellow victorian

i remember sliding pocket doors trapping wood-burning heat in the room. we incinerated masterpieces because there was never any purpose sustaining them. and that which we contribute is a mere blessed flutter of the figurative butterfly wings flapping man's evolution. now years later, i'm in some kind of nightclub victorian with shabbier woodwork and a feeling of collective non-entity. i wanna shake the shoulders of people taking this at face value. want us to melt in a pot together, witches brew, come out enchanting with life in one burst, that's all. it will make a difference, push followed by push, we're getting somewhere.