Your spit slivers into a pile in front of me. If I rethink it, maybe it would wake up and walk away to the place it belongs. But, I tip my head and think about its viscosity while the heat edits my brain.
one. you. have. a cathedral that can't show. You speak it. You said it to me. I held one part, the shape of your skeleton as a parabola, yet you believe my lip is violet. When I cry in your vicinity, you emerge in my mouth.
I want to erase everything, down to the last word, image, conveyance. Nothing should remain distilled unless a cloud reaccumulated back into vision
When i mumble outside I have loose hands. Spreading sound cracks so they lust. May i explain a brain of mine. they made a grove, where friends sometimes talk me into an elsewhere forest so i may sit in the moon of their heads.
I am ashamed this stings me. she mouthed her misunderstanding of my symbol echoes year by year. The miss in clarity of conceptual pain implies a refusal, though the selfishness of that thought under my veil is welling up. removals from many more than yourself, pushing me into the orbit of a sunken alcove off avenue C. I am observational toward the scale of my spacetime where an urchin grows long as to entirely fix my isolation. Of i have done. Of no one will do. And this. And its face sits on the bottom coiling indistinct rumbling. I’ve laughed for always an opposite reason in situations of conjoined release. Maybe there was one else, no? Caught myself. And words as misdemeanors in everything I must leave missing. are you feeling any unease in the miscommunications? That you have secretly stopped thinking in words more than imagistic feelings? Relative to location? Don’t say that on your eyes please, don't you know I must create pieces before I speak. The sensation of only emotion bubble rattles me whilst you wish to hear something emerge. But I only feel.
In a sodium cation I've left some scripture during my singing. A collection of simmering description of garments that enter subliminal exits at request, sounds that have yet to touch an ear drum beside one's own, because the frequency has never been its most raw. Of static fields in a butterfly net. A breeze and breath while never making love. I do not decode for the prince in this town, although confirm there is something in the sensor breaking when I want.
locked up pathways to the social world. Blocksite with a password written on a piece of paper that I have ripped into five pieces and shoved into different places where they have the potential to decay. Think of how convenient that is...now if something is truly important, I must ask someone permission to use their device and go out of my way. the small talk will fog you if it's incessant, especially if you don't begin there and don't end there. The small talk is the small image is the small phrase is the small joke is the small mannerism is the small flex is the small representation.
social media habit showcases the common human limits of spatial, visual communicatively-based expression. but that's access to a notch and notches (trillion and beyond). How lucky is that, how beautiful is that, how scary is that?
if w2 had an organized funnel, more freedom and pieces of an interface to coordinate the chunks of an application that are desired to be the used parts extracted from portions less suitable for repeated exposure on part of the human brain.