Playing with perfection's patina. Colure. Mirror crescendos. Porcelain's easyclean moods. And ancient numbers. Tumbling like goose down. Abacus chairlift cliffs. The age of wonder. Incarnate. Comatose's Galactic Intimate

Electrolytic

June 16, 2019

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Imagination and invention ~ Dream and delusion ~ ~ Fantasy and formation ~ ~ ~ Reality and reunion ~ ~ ~ ~ Necessity and novation ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Confidence and confusion ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Patience and pretension ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Presence and preclusion ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Indulgence and immersion ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Insight and illusion ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Force and fruition ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Ecstasy and exclusion ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Melody and mutation ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Miracle and

malfunction ⌇

If disdain of disgust, and celebration of attraction, are merely programmed reactions to definable criteria, do they possess any fundamental validity? If one person adores cinnamon, and another abhors it, is there any innate quality to it? If some words sound symphonic, and others cacophonous, do the notes have intrinsic affinities? Or is it more of an interaction, between the feeling, and the listener. That is, if you can see past the confines of your predilections, and step outside of the limitations of their segregations, how would the world look? You begin to see the entire world differently, almost as... elusive but charming flavorings, even those that are most off-putting. And you begin to wonder why your tastes are so attuned to the loves they are

How can love put it. Is not the air, the atmosphere, the stratosphere, sufficient ? Are not the stars, the suns, the moons, enough ? And if you were handed the forests, the flowers, and the fruits, by the deer, the drifts, the diamonds, and the doves ? Perhaps the oceans, and colours, and aromas, are silent. Suppose the naked, the natural, the innocent, are normal. Guess the galaxies, the gold, the glossaries, are heavy. Without the glaciers, the gravity, the dewdrops just loft. And if love were to incarnate, and speak, to the broken. Would it be hanged, or ignored, or crucified, or shot ? Is not beauty dangerous, to the hidden in ugly, and the truth divisive, to the tangled in lies ? Is not patience poemed in the path of eternity, and heaven paved with the lightning of soft ? Or the nova nuclear, like the seasons are sentient, and radiance immaculate, as it disintegrates the born ? Knowledge is useless if it solidifies the stolen, and emptiness is worthless if it obliterates the one. How can love put it ? In language unspoken, in luminance in motion, in luscious erosion, in leviathan devotion

in lessons not taught, and riches not won