Hush to the volcanic burst of the hollow flourish of a noise from deep within: we'll never be able to express the limits of our limitations - RELEASE!
Cherish the never-ending xerox of the paper-life of the going and raining gold coins that fall from the uncorked skull and the mind has its musical notes that wriggle and spread out, like bees that know their destination but we cannot decipher and follow the beating of their wings - does not matter.
stare at paintings that you cannot replicate and we may in multiple gestures find more alignments with the strokes of the dead masters' brushes than our unattainable dreams of reproduction that do not meet the requirement that is the aura of the return. So have you made up your mind to follow the notes and release yourself from your ocular shackles?
we meet at places you cannot imagine. And the entrances are at places you cannot see. (maybe there are no entrances and exits. Just Openings) we'll rock with a progressive method that we can no longer trace the origin and decode the marks that form in our ears so let us then believe, blindly, that the music must end, surely it must end that we may embark once again on memory lanes and not allow dementia to ruin us - instead, it is our return to our child-likeness, with unicorns and carousels to once again imagine ourselves in merry-go-rounds that go round and round till fantasies are on repetition and meaning has no standard form except the pure blindness of the mind that lead us to only be on LSD and not mind walking 7 steps to and fro without a sole purpose.
So you should notice by now, that sense is the last thing we need (it is) and we will then venture further (and nearer) than we can ever imagine. We won't regret for we cannot regret. focus and the world will present itself to you. Do not paint it. It is already painted. Do not admire it. Live in it. Cover us with lights we never see before, and blind us.
And we release, soon after, the forgiveness that we long so much for - forgive yourself - and we will retrieve what we lost. transmute me, with the perfect alchemy of blood and substance.
Last, two sense of the word. Last is the first is the last.
Cherish the never-ending xerox of the paper-life of the going and raining gold coins that fall from the uncorked skull and the mind has its musical notes that wriggle and spread out, like bees that know their destination but we cannot decipher and follow the beating of their wings - does not matter.
stare at paintings that you cannot replicate and we may in multiple gestures find more alignments with the strokes of the dead masters' brushes than our unattainable dreams of reproduction that do not meet the requirement that is the aura of the return. So have you made up your mind to follow the notes and release yourself from your ocular shackles?
we meet at places you cannot imagine. And the entrances are at places you cannot see. (maybe there are no entrances and exits. Just Openings) we'll rock with a progressive method that we can no longer trace the origin and decode the marks that form in our ears so let us then believe, blindly, that the music must end, surely it must end that we may embark once again on memory lanes and not allow dementia to ruin us - instead, it is our return to our child-likeness, with unicorns and carousels to once again imagine ourselves in merry-go-rounds that go round and round till fantasies are on repetition and meaning has no standard form except the pure blindness of the mind that lead us to only be on LSD and not mind walking 7 steps to and fro without a sole purpose.
So you should notice by now, that sense is the last thing we need (it is) and we will then venture further (and nearer) than we can ever imagine. We won't regret for we cannot regret. focus and the world will present itself to you. Do not paint it. It is already painted. Do not admire it. Live in it. Cover us with lights we never see before, and blind us.
And we release, soon after, the forgiveness that we long so much for - forgive yourself - and we will retrieve what we lost. transmute me, with the perfect alchemy of blood and substance.
Last, two sense of the word. Last is the first is the last.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment