I listened to the silence of the fog - and looked at her thigh: the shadow covered her body - no food for the voyeur here. A few hours - and pack up: a new place - a new look - a new rest from memory. We have been forgotten by time - and the fog curls ephemera at our fingertips. We waited for this morning - and it presented emptiness. We met versions of what we could become - and went on: something calls - except the reflex of rejection. There are days - that shape a life for years to come: what you do, you devote yourself to. Every day.
I believe and know: we do only what we are attracted to, and the magnetism-hunting of souls begins. I believe and know: the environment is powerless to refract - it has the power to distort, slightly. You observe, you observe - and the inner voice is either silenced, or - listens….
I remember an essay about a couple: they were drunk - and went down to the basement of a saloon of comfort; she was shy - he was persistent, but not convincing.
The voice is internal - fuelled by reflection. The feeling of the first sip of Air - in a month, or six months?
Madness - a treasure beyond worlds. Voice is the instrument of realities. Serenity - the scales of fate.
Sadness - that I won’t see you again, beautiful ones. It all began - and singularised. A strong time. Should become stronger - and mine the forms for the polarisation of re-sighting. Mechanics, interfaces, realisms….
Yesterday I was thinking about the cone; the horse’s whisker; the horse’s whisker; the ko’moo:
Consciousness breathes - and you are in force - if in unison with the body, - though not cycle to cycle - but peak meets peak.
There are Twin Peaks; there are also Twin Pigs, ‘it depends on what you look at’).
I am amused at the fact - that it is customary to ‘forget’ - words, actions, essence, - maybe - that is ‘vulnerability’ - when innocent on the face of it - will poison you and make you a villain, and while you are losing blood in convulsions - will also play a deity?
The hell of it. The value of a man is his refusal to be imposed upon.Try to find it - best - in yourself.
‘Every criticism is a kind of self-portrait of the critic’ - and what is there to reflect on?
Neutrality. Time passes - and I fly into the abyss - what is there - a sweep, or survival.
Voice imprinted in bardo after bardo; conditioning - purpose. It is interesting to exhale - ‘with my whole being’ - and, to look around with other eyes - and read - and find - that - of all and sundry - to recognise - the present: where the proportions of the soul override - the prescriptions, - or - where the prescriptions override - the soul. Absorb me, infosphere, - to me in ecstasy - the dance of your DNA fibres.
Find /death/lor/ation/ - and pass through.
