In the canvas of code, a painting on the sky, the movements, like strokes of brush, like pastel oils, thick and lush, are cumulative, are clarities, are tasteful, like denim skirts, pressed amber, records in velvet nights, braided in synchrony, holiday scented, binding atoms, the hallmarks of consciousness, which it knows itself to be, forlorn of despair, beyond the wild, fortifying the future, wearing on thrill, wearing off dull, accent strokes, juxta positions, trees dancing drunk with matter, those sixth form years, the tough sleddings, the way freedom can't be captured, the lazy operas, the paved glories, the way nothing rises, only turns, so subtle, and cadent, in formation, organ ization, all change, the automation of interactions, the gulf that dwarfs the depths of seas, the marvels of inconsistencies, the things that improve with wear, the warmth of sun's creation, a delicate balance, a force of nature, the promise of potential. Truth, is an unwoven work of art
Conducted across. A release mechanism. A yes/no pattern builder. A directional spiral. That much is clear. Diving into the nectarean ocean. The gateless gate. The extravagance and the exigence. 8-bit cabana trees. Jingle belles. Supertrash. Fibrefashion. Artbreakers. How one rescinds fame
