We’re in this thing, a new age of prosthetics. Ride the pig towards a bending of their rule. Plato is probably rolling in his grave, saying fuck you. Some things are just making so much sense. I am overwhelmed the possibility of the totally certain. Every part, on fire- this is serious business and I can’t stand straight. Minutes blink in the eyes of a connoisseur- French spit on the lettered trays. Not even conscious, it’s killing every moment of the days, with a concept of time there is so much well in the womb. A congested corrugation in the cliffs of the diluted- caught in the transitions of worlds. Walkways and beaten muses, there are leaps to something concrete. Poetic in nature, the novels write their way to a repeat- sheltered joys. Something cute in the reverb.
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