Forty thousand TVs aflame And not one less May 26, 2019 Leave a Comment Cancel Comment Name* Email* Website
Atomized as it were. Like slipping into a slot. The entire deed of history. A gorgeousness of incomparable store. An experience beyond all experiences. The goddess’s eyes rapt. Speaking through traceless elements. Fortress. Empress. Weightless. Dressless. 10. To the 15ᵗʰ power. (1 quadrillion) years. Suddenly. Enthusiasm impaled you. A new sense surfaced. A sunless shine was born. The desert bloomed. Infinite immaterial. The moon melted in two. Space rolled back. Piñata lakes explew. Confetti endorphins laughed. Little Blip Wink’d. Its Rendezvoodoo Woo
Painting with sour milk / Is not art / And to say what art is / and is not / Is not art / And so the non artist / Unstrives to bring / The not art to pass / Unarmed with an atombrush / Unarranges the time / Unspoils the milk / Unbirths the calf / Unspins the galaxy / Unfastens the raft / Unfortunes the remedy / Unburdens your laugh / Kicks you out of the comedy / Kicks you into / The path / Shoots time / Without arrow / Talks sphere / Without fact / If you dare say it is this / You can’t say / It’s not that
where the supercommutator [ x , y ] = x y − ( − 1 ) | x | | y | y x {displaystyle [x,y]=xy-(-1)^{|x||y|}yx} always vanishes
Everything that arrives in your life, is some distant traveled part of you Proximity is volume of symphony
It's a kind of vastly futuristic technical stitching. Not like a printing, or a growing, but a stitching, a sewing: that tactile, that overflowing, sharp and soft, and super thrilling. The heavenly, into the terraforming. The glacial, into the summer snowing. The eclectic, into the coolest clothing. A golden jacket, from a field of knowing. It's a kind of interdimensional architexture, long forgotten, and forever glowing 🪡
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