Do y’all remember the album Relish?
Yeah, it has that overplayed track.
But, every other one is a gem that I bet you have not given a chance in a decade.
Am I wrong?
Do y’all remember the album Relish?
Yeah, it has that overplayed track.
But, every other one is a gem that I bet you have not given a chance in a decade.
Am I wrong?
Just awoke from dream of walking through the woods with my sister.
She told me I cited a quote when I told her: I don’t hate what hurt me; i hate myself for hurting.
A line I thought I made up about a month ago.
Seemed common enough because I read too much but the look in her eyes made me wanna hate myself for it.
We talked again about “simulation theory” and I snapped awake wondering for the first time:
If this is a simulation, of-what is being simulated exactly?
Updated a couple of hours later.
I box things up.
I find this odd card.
A leaf paved over.
A flower in parts.
A bit of purple in bloom,
enabled and barely shielded from above
By what is below.
Balance and proportion
Foaming for seasonal salmon roe.
A welcoming en-trance
A good exit.
of positive and negative space
on a cape that I drape around me
to step outside.
The grey morning opens wide
And inhales me into its reality.
Here we go again.
I fell into fitted sleep last night
while listening to to
to the British “Sir” talk consciousness.
I read two of your books.
A late night compatriot who noticed
the emporer was still naked.
(“A new theory,” he said, “not another reinterpretation.”)
S/he should borrow
I awoke to your unannounced reentry.
There is nothing to take, hurt, or steal
But, you could still lock the door
When you do leave.
you predict myself to my face.
And also, you may be right.
But, hush and do not assume
you just keep those precocious eyes closed,
Pressingly and curiously
like a street legal switchblade,
a switchboard operation.
Useless matter does not
just a quick slashing.
Diamond cutters crying with
those backseat jumpercables.
I missed the film but
I want to watch the movie.
My cellular telephone
likes to automagically
It told me, after I typed /i/,
‘don’t get internet culture.’
Didn’t you k/no/w the anxious
(ancients) taught music
And, invented time
They were just counting to eight,
Again and again, and, it
Turns out that this moves time forward
And that this everlasting, temporary
Retrograde is the forgotten remembrance.
The blue specks return at
this time of day.
Scepters of spectres.
Spectators of the Spectra.
Speculators and crusty prospectors.
Gold merchants running along-
side the train.
The Highwaymen will
them soon enough.
Yelling: always pay yourself first.
The only people not fearful of
are snickering kids.
The immortal ones.
How old do you feel most
The sun will set in the next
five minutes to five hours.
I sit at the striped, canary yellow
No Canary Row.
(I never finished that book either, to be
Now nearly bored.
Now frenetic and feral.
My long-hand is no match for my keyboarding.
In this state.
Everyone is a poet.
Everyone is an idiot.
Everyone is exactly who they are.
And perhaps we are just dummies.
Silent until we realize we are they,
and, they are
This much I believe to be true:
I make others comfortable.
Frequent descriptor from people that touch me.
It makes my eyes harden then go curious.
I do not get cold.
I suppose that is speculation.
I try to warn people.
Everyone seems to be cold or worry about it.
I wish I got cold.
Faded out of my rabbit-holes.
Fell behind by one miss-step too many.
But, I wake up sweating whether the weather is
February or july.
But, I grin, now, and giggle at the very idea.
Behind this smile
That betrays a happy tear.
That aches in my stomach.
Of course, I could get cold, right?
Howl i silently howl.
Now, I see how large this place is.
The placelessness is almost too big.
Me and these ghosts make good company.
The chorizo finishes.
Eggs and a bottle of white
Microwave hood fan
Time to cut meat from casing.
An unused balcony.
The window with the looking-glass.
The other window that is looking-glass.
I drove the perimeter of a street festival.
People formed a line at the
Automatic Teller Machine.
I could have walked for my eggs.
But, the milk would
Have gotten spilt.
I arrive home.
My salt is gone
Suggestion: put this on and do your thing.
Good fretting-about tunes.
No cans required.
No rights, homage.
I made my hair sit straight yesterday.
But, summer has its ways
Of sweating my scalp.
Salt and the occasional breeze.
“You should write about that,” said the girl,
Who stopped for a smoke,
About something else
Music without lyrics.
Talk of narcissism
And, I wonder,
Do narcissists know they are as such?
The dog was all fur, and
Sweaty as howl, too.
Fur ball coat
The masters smiled
And said, “her name”
Meant /hair/ in another language.
Doubling the word
In affection and affectation.
Cars pull u-turns,
To go to the street festival.
They hold traffic while invisible things
cross the street.
I saw the last five yards of your memory.
You were simply sleepwalking
Lucidity from insomnia.
Asleep and awake at the same time.
For a moment.
You are still
In the field.
Come here but close your eyes.
I did write something for you
before we met.
At the little theater you barely
Painted stars on the roof
twinkled to indicate
the show was shortly
A connoisseur versus a collector.
Coat-tailers and chasers
Partners in crime.
A trail-off of the trellis
Flow like tresses
Caught in bureaucratic
Being and nothing
Edge of bed.
The dragon is impatient.
Selectively scorching leaves
Such as these
Fading embers still ablaze
Sparks off burned tar.
Shedding hair is ripped.
Old roots know where to look
And look gracefully.
A leaf suspended.
Not alit by wind.
Steles revel as Black Pond evaporates.
A lean-to against a cut-down.
A greasy blender rubbed wrong.
It is infinitely easy to identify with someone
(but not any-body?).
So you hate cool, swift breezes on hot days?
I leaf notes to future me.
Encryption ain’t the new
They remind me to
This is a thread to me.
Leaves about a spine.
For no-one but page
I slept until three p.m.
Because I could-no usual m.o.
In the pac NW 7 a.m., 3 p.m., and nine p.m. all
Look the same
Waking from dreams to remember
This is the one from which you do not know how to wake.
I imagine the world can
See and know what my mind holds
In that state.
Like there is nothing to doubt
Nothing to fear.
The cat slept on my feet.
They were not cold.
The gray summer sky
Resembles the colors of your silent eyes.
I slept by scraps I scrawled for you.
I slept by a bit of wrapping paper from a gift
Half a year old.
Oh howl, you make me sentimental.
To ask for what you hope
And to wait.
As hard as crying non-sad tears must appear to observers.
The sea is soft today.
But, í can always find a reason to smile.
Sobriquet que ridiculoso.
I made fresh pasta with hand cut veg.
I ate ice cream instead
I put on the new season of stranger things.
I fell into a sugar sleep.
I dreamt I was your dream.
You are smooth
Like young skin.
It is this present, separating the two.
You always new.
So í present me as í will and wilt be.
Your grains grew.
Hard to go against.
A backwards shove.
A cat pet the wrong way.
Your backwards glance, surreptitiously noticed.
I told you
I pay attention to your punctution.
Paints dried as fast as grass grew.
But, never as fast as the weather changed.
Everything happened so quickly
Living with punctuated equilibrium ages me in bursts.
The course grain leaves red rubs on skin like indian burns from childhood.
Asked for and still bemoaned.
Like saying: I miss you.
I ran with you in dreams last night.
There was a small bit of lace hiding a bit of my clavicle.
When you lifted it
The notation for
a song was below.
Then I remembered
I wrote this for you
Before we met.”
Splash the water on your face and remove the split of confusion.
Spit out last night’s sleepy breath.
Open wide into the mirror
Let it swallow all of you into today.
The right song for a dexterous night
And for one I think of.
The issue is psychic unity of intent?
Can you not see your ally, lily, and enemy
Your lover and your birth
And your death?
The day ran past without a backwards wave.
I found myself, coffee in hand, at four p.m.
Dreams of the red whale re-meander through my mind.
Recall people asking what we do?
You would say: meander, me and her.
I would smile. I would try not to, and I would fail.
I smile right, exactly, now.
The whale was larger than a breadbox
But, smaller than a tidal wave.
Blood red. No variation in shades, as though block colored by a child.
You did not even consider dinner,
the whale said.
I do not want to eat.
I don’t know.
Just say you are not hungry.
A diabolical combo.
These are are two of my favorite…
Used for good, clean energy boosts.
No rights: homage.
Would you eat me piecemeal
Or all at once?
Management of expextation.
R.N. looks at me from across the table and grins.
I know the answer.
No rights: pure homage.
A gent friend introduced me to their music a year ago or so.
Do it yourself.
Instantly endeared them to me.
Such a unique, sound from an innovative guy.
Looks good in denim overalls too .
I look forward to digging into them more.
Sweet man, they have been telling our story all along. I’ll tell it to you as I heard it so just sit down and:
“Hear the sad rhyme of how love turned to lust, and lust invigorated love, and love shone brighter for the stain it rose above.” 21
Sugrbeat, it is day one and already are you floating in your peaceful, wet c/sea with “all foolish loves of men” and suddenly you said, “Thither I Fled.”
While later you said “Come hither” to me. And, hither I came.
You later told me, “I followed like a dog…tied by some soft bond of twinning.”
I saw your eye sparkle while you spoke it. I hear you in those moments of desire unexpressed, dear. It made me think the “perfect sage could make the perfect lover.” Singular purposed in their craft as I try to be for mine.
( “Fool! Later on. Not to tell her. Triple fool to fly away.” )
We met because “she read-and saw him but a beardless boy…quite powerless to destroy her life’s long peace; the ten year-walled city,
And then I said, “I think the poem is pretty.”
Howl we endeared “under the dim glory in the shrine of Artemis.” She is ally to me as Aura was to my sister. Do you remember that night we stayed over in a b&b? I told you a filthy version just to try to get rise from your denim, button fly.
“The heart’s pulse quickning; the fear; the increasing ecstasy of this. The foolishness of love”. And, yet, we “give love one chance before its wave retire,” and “Maytime shone in us; with words of art.”
“Unless my Alice be the sea,” you kept repeating.
“As you yield you
To love that is stronger than shame, no music but kisses, that pealed you their paean, proclaim: the sound of the sea is made still
The climax shall come unupbraided, obedient alone to our will.”
” it was impossible that she should come,” you said,
“Over the summer-coloured sea, alone, with love and laughter and tears for me.”
Therefore, not fearing anything, I came; lit my love’s candle at my body’s flame and fought with the fevers now that swell.
From Alice: An Adultery
No rights, just homage.
Peel Sessions stay on point.
This one is top form.
The bass line and where it sits in the mix. Nice and crisp.
The room sounds spacey.
Hello to this simoon. I slept eons and have been half-awake even longer. Stalks from plant scatterings litter the ground below scales and scaffoldings.
My eyes narrow. Harden.
What did you whisper? What don’t you remember?
Did you intend to forget? It simply sounds like something you’d do, darling.
Out of joint and harmonizing on some strange frequencies.
I remember the steps to the dance, though.
And a clear recollection of
Anticipating that beat
You always drop.
The recapitulation of skipping one step.
Music does not consist in those purely intellectual oscillations and figurations which we have abstracted from it.
Its pleasure consists in its sensuous character.
In the outpouring of breath.
In the beating of time.
Certainly, the spirit is the main thing.
The invention of new instruments,
altering old ones.
The introduction of new keys.
New rules, taboos, regarding construction and harmony, are always mere gestures and superficialities, as our the fashions of nations.
Sun-chapped, vermillion gravel lines the Arizona interstate. The smell of civil anticipation of draught conditions.
De-ride derision. Re-sent. De-ridden. Hostile.
Regurgitate…come here, baby bird.
Under my wing where the sun does not scream.
like wild things run fast.
I run so quickly it looks as though I am lazy.
Because, I smiled all the time, my narrowed eyes confuse.
Rode hard but not to be
Put up wet.
I asked him not to say things that seem to be true.
A certain gaze becomes requisite.
A dis-focus agile like a cacti forest.
Look for the invisible shrub-brush. The one that may or may not actually be there.
When you see that you do not see it, you will know you’ve got off on
The good foot.
So scratch, scratch pen to paper. Then take tips to keyboard.
Pleas. If you cannot silence your mouth, write it instead. For yourself.
Spit yourself upon the page.
See what floats.
Mercury corresponds here, where air is the element?
Striations of stratifications.
I am not what you expect, because I am not as you’ve known me to be.
Newly transmuted. I let my stomach gnaw on it’s own emptiness.
Acclimation. Deceleration of mass.
A bob becoming weightless, still tethered to a Flagstaff.
Asphalt lanes crisscross terrain like varicose veins.
Little, red blood cell cars traverse. Scrub-brush grows on either side.
Entering Sedona. The elevation changes. Ears pop.
The energy comes on before you fully make it to the valley.
Invigoration as my heart beat hastens, my skin quickens.
I feel my circulation pulsing.
We are told to Be Prepared to Stop.
We are stopped.
My father acclimatizes to the energy but not the dry air.
My sister fidgets with her fingers in her mouth.
My mom crossed and uncrosses her hands. Fingers tapping on top of knuckles.
The four of us seem far too old to be in a car on a road trip. We do not mind.
Joe Cocker. Feeling Alright plays on FM.
Sharp. The energy is sharp. It will hone you.
Make you diabolical, I giggle.
I feel you giggle against my ear. Echoed back to me despite your absence.
Despite your presence on another curve on another side of the world
I magnetize you to my mind’s eye.
There is a church situated in an open expanse. Nothing surrounding on its acre.
There even an atheist might easily see some god.
The orange and red rest easy in my eyes.
Like short pants slung low on hip bones.
No rights, homage
I take a small step….
People call me Tricky for a particular reason…
Now whose got the micro-phone?
I found a word on a notecard.
Present it between gritted teeth,
heavy lidded. Pleas
see before my snarl creeps back.
To acquit, absolve.
I call this word how we untangle each other.
You are Unmade and in need of collection.
Soft, sweet, slow.
Until inertia overcomes.
A harsh lunar body with love that annihilates
Your self-doubt ,
Ashames with kindness.
Pains with inelegant honesty.
My attention and pulse,
Kept with you and resent but a moment ago.
And, I wonder where
we find ourselves
On this reading of what I just write to wrote?
To discern the coefficient of friction.
Re-scribed an umpteenth time.
For your inexorable sea, no doubt,
Unyielding. Relentless. Assiduous.
Paramour. Swoon over and give us some room.
Aragon and lavender, salty mists of sea tides
Aroma wafting through the scene.
A contention that new tangential elaboratorations
exert mild pressure.
“You are uncomfortably comfortable,” whispered with gravity.
So came I, cloaked.
Feminine made anew.
Sew you a pillow case all the colo(u)rs of Joseph’s coat.
You will dream of Argonauts. You will watch legion run
head first off the cliff.
They seek demise, but you have desire and
A dexterous handle with an au gauche moniker.
There is power in having a title, because to have is
To hold(,) dear.
To become the multitudes contained
within my circles.
The circles I contain.
The circles containing me.
A ruddy red demonstration of diameter.
Obstinte and obdurate at heart
I am a junkyard bitch who sometimes likes to bark.
Your home is no show place, but you are so fine
that lyrics write idylls for you
and scheme to catch just a sight of you
blushing. I’d sooner have you stern
The lost cause of
how you used to be?
The wilted cæmellia
tucked behind the hero/ine’s ear?
wither and thither.
Return to stasis,
never static, sugarfoot.
But, what you chew up and
will feed your
Poison returns if you
leave it elsewhere.
Sum it up and send it
Back to the earth
Quake for rebirth.
You saw a wryneck
In shallow waters of a
Good place to be
The best of whose
It is how you
See the question.
Just glad to hear
The presumption of my
Body is no assumption.
To be fretted
For being willing
To be the bay-at-sea/c.
A cistern formed by basins of shale
Far beneath and beyond
The pale where
Sun is always shadowed
But for somme.
I have stamps for the postage.
The ferry leaves the same time over here.
I checked the mail and I don’t think City of Revelation is here yet.
Sometimes, I silently swear I can sensate an-other/s, holding my head,
three fingers of pressure and support to my forehead.
My hair sweeps down and closes around my face like a curtain drawn across a stage.
I learned to sleep whether my eyes were on
the open or the closed.
A nap in blink. A relative delusion.
The pull of fo/u/rces up-on me.
I am force moving through and enlivening the body I wear.
Maybe that is you.
Maybe I am your optimal conditions.
The intersection of wave patterns with which your waves may coalesce.
The current ether capable of manifesting your revivification.
I entreat catalyzing. I desire catalyzation.
I see from the Vacuum and
It-is lonely even though you are not alone,
Or, a loaned.
I want to draw your energy
To magnetize your electricity.
Resonate and then shall I feed you some of
Yours with mine.
We will digest and rebirth ourselves in juices charged.
Rings of /re/comings
I may want to circle you a while yet,
Even a long time.
Finding out while up-on the vortex again.
Teach me to live well yet simply.
I will teach you gladness.
My adoration of discovering you through you
Raises a moon-day sun.
A car sounds like
A sneeze of leaves
through the noses of
A quickly pealing pair of
Hark or hail.
Who goes there?
Conceal to reveal
of the wheel may not
whom you may ride
Tripping your shores of
The center can still hold
or ready, steady, go.
turn on cloven toes,
split like the tongues of
Smooth as slick.
Aria for the ballerino.
[Dreams of the alpaca hotel by the bay].
[Fables of worm farming, chain letter writers].
The poetics of “defamiliarization”
Representing something in such a way that one feels as if one were seeing it for the first time, thus making the perception of the object difficult for the reader.
“Ratios of revision”
“Nonextraneity of structure in art.”
extraneous: irrelevant or unrelated to the subject/of external origin (Concise OED, 2008)
Structure of words in a poem/story become art in that they are a looking-glass house, a skeleton key, a scaffold.
An example of the aesthetics of structure creating art in unexpected places. Like the table of contents of a book on aesthetics.
Luigi Pareyson’s Aesthetics (Milan: Bompiani, 1988)
Section 3 of Chapter 3 is titled: “The parts of the Whole”
Chapter 3 is titled: “Completeness of the work of art”
subsection 10 of Chapter 3 Section 3 is entitled: “The essential nature of each part: structure, stopgaps, imperfections.
“In this sense the relation that the parts have among themselves do nothing but reflect the relation that each part has with the whole: the harmony of the parts forms the whole because the whole forms their unity.“
As regards “stopgaps in literature”:
“It can be a banal opening, which can be useful for finding a sublime ending.”
No rights, just homage.
I howl for stripped down classics and supergroups.
Good jams for toast.
Until three days ago, Parçigal had not slept well, no more than three hours in a sitting. Her mind ran busy moving invisible, imaginary things.
She was not tired. Her eyes unfocused but wide ovals.
Had she dreamt it all?
Maybe she had it confused: was she awake for those three hours, and, in fact, actually sleeping right, exactly now?
No-mind either way. Sleeping and waking became less distinguishable to her a decade ago. There was just lucid and sleepwalking.
She plods herself with aloof-nonchalance that conceals a passionate heart (smart or not). She can look until something appears.
Then the sleep will always follow.
Trivia: she says “thank you” aloud every time she yawns. To remind herself.
What a strange breath is a yawn. Inhalation and exhalation are required to breathe and live. Sneezing cleanses. Yawns seem like alarm clocks to wake you up from real life and let you know it is time to lucid dream. Yawns are the only type of breath that appear to be contagious.
What Parçigal found three days ago:
Mr. Price Preface from History of English Poetry from the Twelfth to the Close of the Sixteenth Century. By Thomas Warton, B.D. With a preface by Richard Price, and Notes Variorum. Edited by W. Carew Hazlitt. Volume 1.* London: Reeves and Turner, 196, STRAND. 1871.
“The immediate source of Eschenbach’s poem [sic. Parzival] was a Provençal romance written by one Kyot or Guiot. Of this writer nothing further appears to be known.”
Capricious as she had not been seeking it. But, sometimes she can see things when she believes them.
Curiouser and curio-user.
*Incidentally, “Of this Edition 500 copies are printed on small paper,
and 50 on large.
What are we to make of this?
As is a practice, I flipped through a book snapped from the shelf at random.
There was a metro ticket from a trip taken.
It fell before the start of this reading.
It fell at the end of the other reading included.
As an investigator of method, Tao, mysticism, I found it of interest. Surprise, right? Giggle.
A couple of extra quotes from different readings included below.
The gate keeper in the capital city of Sung became such an expert mourner after his father’s death, and so emaciated himself with fasts and austerities, that he was promoted to high rank in order that he might serve as a model of ritual observance.
As a result of this, his imitators so deprived themselves that half of them died. The others were not promoted.
The purpose of a fish trap is to catch fish, and when the fish are caught, the trap is forgotten.
The purpose of the rabbit snare is to catch rabbits. When the rabbits are caught, the snare is forgotten.
The purpose of words is to convey ideas. When the ideas are grasped, the words are forgotten.
Where can I find a man who forgotten words? He is the one I would like to talk to.
Hui Tzu said to Chuang Tzu:
“All your teaching is centered on what has no use.”
“If you have no appreciation for what has no use
You cannot begin to talk about what can be used.
The earth, for example, is broad and vast
But of all this expanse a man uses only a few inches
Upon which he happens to be standing.
Now suppose you suddenly take away
All that he is not actually using
So that, all around his feet a gulf
Yawns, and he stands in the Void,
With nowhere solid except right under
How long will be he able to use what he is using?”
Hui Tzu said:
“It would cease to serve any purpose.”
Chuang Tzu concluded:
The absolute necessity
Of what has ‘no use.'”
The disciple got some supplies,
Traveled seven days and seven nights
And came to Lao Tzu.
Lao asked: “Do you come from Keng?”
“Yes,” replied the student.
“Who are all those people you have
brought with you?”
The disciple whirled around to look.
Nobody there. Panic!
Lao said: “Don’t you understand?”
The disciple hung his head. Confusion!
Then a sigh. “Alas, I have forgotten my
(More confusion!) “I have also forgotten
Lao said: “What are you trying to say?”
The disciple: “When I don’t know,
people treat me like a fool.
When I do know, the knowledge gets me in trouble.
When I fail to do good, I hurt others.
When I do good, I hurt myself.
If I avoid my duty, I am remise,
But if I do it, I am ruined.
How can I get out of these contradictions?
That is what I came to ask you.”
Lao Tzu said: You are trying to sound
The middle of the ocean
With a six foot pole…
You have got lost, and are trying
To find your way back
To your own true self.
You find nothing
But illegible signposts
Pointing in all directions…
If your obstructions
Are on the outside,
Do not attempt
To grasp them one by one
And thrust them away.
To ignore them.
If they are within yourself,
You cannot destroy them piecemeal,
But you can refuse
To let them take effect.
If they are both inside and outside,
Do not try
To hold on to Tao–
Just hope that Tao
Will keep hold of you.”
The disciple asked:
“Is this perfection?”
Lao replied: “Not at all. If you persist in trying
To attain what is never attained
(It is Tao’s gift!)
If you persist in reasonsing
About what cannot be understood,
You will be destroyed
By the very thing you seek.
To know when to stop
To know when you can get no further
By your own action,
this is the right beginning!”
Merton, Thomas. The Way of Chuang Tzu. Shambhala Publications, Inc. Boston & London. 1992.
Copyright 1965 by the Abbey of Gethsemani
Clicking another bullhorn
Not getting cold.
I don’t forget to remember
Nor do I remember when I forget.
I collapsed once, a/broad,
Trying to fit a key
In a lock.
Only to come to
In the room which
When a pendulum is displaced sideways from its resting equilibrium position, it is subject to a restoring force due to gravity, that will accelerate it back towards the equilibrium position. When released, the restoring force acting on the pendulum’s mass then causes it to oscillate about the equilibrium position, swinging back and forth.
The time for one complete cycle, a left swing and a right swing, is called a period. The period depends on the length of the pendulum’s swing.
In the same vein, “when we hold our breath at the end of inhaling and before exhaling, we experience a state in which the process of becoming seems to be suspended…It gives the impression of a break from the past, quantum leap. For Sufi’s, time is ever recurrent rather than linear.”
P.58 The Ecsatsy Beyond Knowing. Pir Vilayt Inayat Khan.
“What seems to be coming and going is really the result of becoming and manifestation. ”
P.58 The Ecsatsy Beyond Knowing. Abu’l-Hasan al -Hujwiri.
“When the owner of waqt (the instant of time) comes into possession of hal (that is: it becomes a permanent state) he is no more subject to change, and is made steadfast in his state.”
P59 The Ecsatsy Beyond Knowing. Abu’l-Hasan al -Hujwiri.
“Witnessing only takes place when two lights come together.”
Muhyiad-Din Ibn ‘Arabi. quoted from The Sufi Path of Knowledge
I call out for you to breath back and forth against my lips. The light upon light of eyes into eyes.
Quicken the periodicity.
She’s clumsy. A rushy bumbler who tries too hard and cares too much. Still, she managed/s to be ineffective. She had just been here so long.
She forgot other people could not tell right away.
And so, she had raced in and embarrassed herself with a bit too much gusto, in front of her new acquaintance/s.
Or, so she assumed.
She wanted him to take her dancing, places where real players made analog and live digital music they converted to other mediums afterward.
In a room where people were still allowed to smoke.
Even when they choose not to.
It would be loud, crowded, and their lungs would hurt the next day.
Desire is the alchemy of magic.
A free hunter in the court of knights.
Circling long time.
Desire is from < L. desidero de, from + sidus (sider-) star
“Do you know how to get out?”
“I did not know there was an ‘out.’
Did you know they sell
The post office and cockroaches will remain.
I adore discovery and savor savoury.
I let you show yourself.
While I build momentum to cross into an unknown more
Fearsome freedom to be new.
Dealing with the defamilirized world.
No rights, homage to a hero.
Get off there kids.
Not talking to the older kids.
Good morning from the city.