A Word, Please... It was two widths of a lamb's shank that separated us, clandestine, but surmised, between membranous sheets of silicon. At this moment, I can see her eyes, perpendicular to mine, forming a kaleidoscopic centrifuge of human mirage. From this angle, I cannot look into her eyes, I can focus but on one.
Sometimes a Heading is just a Heading I grope to reclaim all of the insights I've ever had, as if they were lost to me. For the time that be's, evaporation, captured somewhere in heaven's nimbus, a moonbow around the stellar excitement of a novel idea. To imagine the narrative, but never speak or pen.
A Word, Please... And that every day that goes by without a word will end in neglect. Not that there is anything to offer my adoring self, watching hisself negotiate a chilly keyboard across the vibrational invoice sent from the hidden dimensions of void. As if something must come from something and somewhere. It's an
A Word, Please... I believe I have awakened again with the spin of liminal fever shedding sweat into bedsheets—an endless taxonomical investigation of what makes me human, and what comprises consciousness. I couldn't be sure that it was me who believes he has awakened, or the inverse of me, careening in from the future to
A Word, Please... Plenary vibrations, ones that ricket the sole to the soul, immensification of ebullience, all shrugged into one Pine Box, from whence, upon opening, all the knowledge of evil flew. These coins on your eyes cost as much as any stamp—to ferry your words and ideas from continent to continent, from shadow to