Sunday, August 14, 2016


Interconnected racing pulsing thoughts jump into the river of Time but not without first asking the lady for a drink or maybe a ham sandwich for the Dog who then laughs off the wind's request to dance under the pale moonlight tree dog splunge.

Article participle dance toe thrice nice in the night time light red like sneakers on a wire hanging there a symbol undecoded recoded into pompadour fizzle this hard to strike without the last bit of brain to interfere in the process of memory regozzuing the laisht with aout wnjnl.adhtla the latters are heavy with cream and fire not in the slightest without the chance of mytery dancing to the music of Time and Chance and this is not your first rodeo but I have a topic to tell you about the missle dowitha and that is how the cookie crumnbls off the tempo timpo master has a whimpo black hold the
heoshke and then laifhtghthaqn but the misuvin is thekajw about makjean ikl auytmatic wiritng is nit the right thing to try if you have a hamster out of the window

Enter the enter the line break the new start the new line the throes of romance are not mine you have a habit of doing this you know its not like you can't just talk to mione and the first time is wondow turning like skylark and trees falling across the ried light sky of blingking radio destruction tires off the toad dying dfead in my head and it's all the ame inside the death and the life and the rebirth of the redeath

to undergo the mental breaks necessary to repieace together the last hance at the first time, the First tTime when they say God, not mine, danced the fine line between King and Lover Smile
Smile smile smile you smile inside like child like killer like blind like turtle not mine this is just a ntother time for the mystery mastery mustery of misslrey? the limits of the finder not mine is the trkey ahndha xukspitz. Cucumber?

Close you reyes and inmagine a world that you create. A dream behind the reality you think is real. But it is the dream you are always dreaming underneath who makes your reality out there. It is what's in her, in there inside the last third of you, the deepest backness, the voice behind your shoulder and the hand on your head, the meaningless threats and voices in languages you cannot understand but emotions you bleed into the reddened dark of the mindpsace setting out into the dream as a

cautionary note. warriors do not have to kill in odrder to be peaceful sorts. They only need to turn off the what

I am standin gon the shore of a world looking up at Saturn. The rings are pulsing and the effort of the disc builders is paying off. Soon the operational weapon will be complete, and the Death Star will destroy their planet. Even now, they do not know their leaders are prepping a mission to drop bombs into the pole of Saturn. A suicide mission for dedicated automatons, only heroic to their makers, only prided by their mothers. But we planted the mission. We planted the doorway.

What do you send through the doorway to the Dark Choice? A hero, a warrior, a scholar, an archaeologist, an anthropologist, an economist, a diplomat, a criminal, a plutonian, a sociopath guided by The Good, a suite of probing automatons? Who is your ideal adventurer, who will go through the doorway to return back, never having left the mission, to speak of truths of the Newer World?

Infernal Affairs. The portals. The real fake doors. Spies. Conspiracy. Friendship. The Guardians.
Libraries. Fractal holography. The fifth dimensional happiness-seekers are no different from us, and just as intentional.
Corruption is immortalizing egocentrism. Life seeks out immortality, and thus its own corruption.
From the transgression comes the new sins, the new truths, the old taboos, the old wisdom.
The path through the dimensions is entirely up to you, but there is no place that does not exist except that you create it
when you pass through the doorway into it. Imagination is a fifth-dimension.
There is where we share the dreamtime.

I am the rolling stone in the darkness. Nameless, yet the entire universe is attracted to me. But it's not me. I am attracted to all it.

Gravity is love.
To zoom into our love is to fall into a gravity well.
The deepest, massive loves stop time to the outside observer.
To stay young, therefore, fall hardly to love.
But in your own space, in our own love, nestled in what's singularity to everyone else, inside the horizon and veil where no one will see you, not even God's slow eyes
you will grow old, burn up, and die in the space of your own life
But to the universe, you are frozen in time, slowly, very very slowly on its own counting, fading away but never
seen to age or move or come back out from the snapshot
Love is gravitational.

She gives me googly eyes.


Is this wise?
Is this yours?
Is this love?

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