My Fault. Exist/ Existing is meant to be no more than a ring of experience and uplifting surges.


life, what’s it made of?

Humans and their shadow remark the light that lead cosmologists to square off the link between soul and rhetoric. What we, for instance, conceptualize as self and other are the kinds of selfhood that is linked to biographically denying the receptors. This leads to the next study which confirms that no contextual paradigm of conceived qualia is not human.

As we gestate through the next passage of psychosis, the arches tended by philosophers is going to re train itself; for better but maybe for worse. Human intellect has not grabbed passed the notion of correlate forgiveness. The end result is what is unconsciously being posed at the definite need for the human experience. Interestingly, some strengths land hand in hand with the ugly face of things; you might take Sarte with open mind and pushing through the waves, there can be seen a light. It cannot be felt. That is just to real. One might call it a forest of similar plains.

In the shunning or embracing, two figures appear. One is the faculty of death. Then, is the faculty of the worst part. Open ended dialogue can make these two halves work in unison. On soul level, life would be seeing an annexation of awareness followed by a temperament of love. These annexations bare the same amusement of our hearts. So in life, the words spare and conjoin partition one another.

the prolific denomination

No error,

no thought,

pessimist down, withdrawn

empire of alienation

did you enjoy seeing him again?

Lasting hypnosis.

Surge of rest, got me with it. Now I live to it. Wakeful as can be. Choose a sticker of some kind,

lets go back to the way we were.

figure me out, I’m a dead angel sitting on a string. Best to keep oneself from half blind.

easier to confine.

what did it all mean when it was sure?

canvas for a flat boy

empty. She’s one canvas I will never fill. For the life of me, I have no repose in thinking of it. Ah. Or. What was the Spanish, I already lost it. Macromedia in a profound sense, lost. Given to the lullaby of big dreams, low scores. You had a hard time there, did you. It was measured by your impetus to comprehend the experience. Little boy, lost. He’s got a hand in it. It takes a cynical breath to pony up the last one.

you, just a child. Either connected, universally, in harm or fakeness of healthy. The human condition is unhealthy. But do ya lil that? I’ll have it with pesticides, on purpose. Vacant for an hour. Rotted and screaming “Freddy’s back!!!” Pieces of this piece less peace less SCREaming mentality. You were at work. The boys say, “as you were”. White trash, tame not brash. Ostracized for your humility. OCD brings back life. Common sense can’t. Fear for a new sleepless bargain. Republican dualist. Outsider’s law. What goes on in your head?

Injured rat full of content. Disposal. Shake of the tv, Me! It isn’t real what those nameless peace authors are saying, not educating. “take care of it Now. Deface the ego. Watch your thoughts. No mind comes after being aware of thought. Meditate for peace”. Yet the sweet iteration of crime comes when love, on acid is self real. Hinders success when bondage writes theocracy, so scorned to public transformation. To be medicated is to perceive feeling in a completely foreign angle. For instance, when she breathes, it is Not remembered.

Viscosity of fragrance is political. Engine of the empire. We’re drinking coffee, no one learns. That was a good night. A vast circle of quantum tantra, concluding that figments of careers depend solely on the the projector.

Punctuation insolence.

Cucamonga Have you nots

Cruelty. Like all things alike in their prestige, floats to no greater hights, aligned by no things in remark for thrusting thrusts. Chew on the vernacular, by no means spectacular. Just a joy among few friends that have listened to the lather.

a vehicle for assumption, persuaded by the robotic kiss and whim. So smithy in their respect for the hour, complex sugar briskets and sharp tongue. Narrated by a voluminous sputter, not unlike that of Christ’s utterance.

So save us from this due holocaust, and welcome the romance of chemists in their oddity. So save us from due holocaust and welcome the music that has marked our ears for so…..long.

Mucus and Velcro, the parlance of rhyme. The mirror casts the same image that bustles with time.

passerbys just look toward a future with no rhyme. Fatal narcissists that cradle the death grip. Cruelty.

have you no sense of care? Cruelty, your arms are very bare. Caustic call, save them from the torment.

and do anything but protect lives from evil distraction.

perhaps the module was less willful

Festive, retinal sarcasm. Beaten between the glance of odd stuff. The public vacancy upon a shower of red rings and deposits of cold upbringings. The breeze of this bliss throws the whole thing to its timely descent.

unless for merchants, out there the sky would be gray, cold. Thank heavens for Zwan. An afternoon was spent in mindful awareness. Good thing to think. Mind overflowing with intangible characters, many whom resemble priceless scaffolding, a night of intent and vaccination. The ice cream parlor, the boy, the pretention in the right mood. You can excise the hunting philosophy, can’t tame the dead.

Dead is dead.