The way they fall and kiss the sand. Totally consumed by this amorous adventure, hidden away in something intangible. There is wilderness in the most archaic sense just outside the walls of Eden. We read the Russians, ogling at her glorious superiority, melancholy so handsome we are reached universally. Jive baby and hear the sounds in your head, from a past life, from an old place. Flitting, fleeting in such organics- a shit label to boost consumption. Sound is caught on the bricks being sold on the fourth floor, whiskey in the drains and you’re bare ass it in the wind. HEY! You are desired, you are required and I am acquitting you. The devil is far-gone from here, the temptation will be here until the morning, every morning only to return for due seduction in the elemental reduction. Your mind, it is another and it is nothing. Repeat yourself and make the real shit a joke, it’s easier and we are laughing. Always, laughing. The birds are busy in the face of such joyous repentance. Here for rebirth and receiving, instead, the eternal post-here. Pseudo-reality, post-neo classics, make love to the tree. Make love to the thing; be ever-there and never totally here. It is too impossible for us to imagine that, grasp that. I implore you to only play with the game you have got- watching the cogs do their sound. Green in nothing, totally removed and totally enthralled in what is so over my head. Blow what I’ve got, that is why you are here. Absorb something.
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