Birthday ball of hope

Hope as tulips

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Branching outs / Casual collabs / Total cuties / Studied facts / Powerful pictures / Prickly pears / Pixel Perfects / Precision paths / Pivot points / Juniper Foxxes / Ghetto butterflies / Bowling alleys / Potato plagues / Honey Foréts / Main stays / Rusty plants / Clay cars / Talcum powders / Tracked perimeters / Rising stars / Intake forms / Hacked feelings / Essential truths / Redeeming values / Melli flutes / Innate dignities / Humless melodies / Adrenaline junkies / T cells / Social stigmas / Garbage palaces / Equal housings / Schip perkies / Almost nothings / Just maybes / Rainbow presents / Organic outgrowths / Bullshit bundles / Hem mirages / Astral sexes / Ifyou dithers / Peugeot fjords / Hog ranchers / Fuse lages / Psalm Springs / Ephemeral nudges / Blithe lithes / Relentless playworks / Hood ornaments / Whata runs / Alittle whiles / Special occasions / Re dials / Glee shapes / Ex lines / Art rays / Reed posts / In symbols / Invisible principles / Thermo dynamics / Les SAINts / Skin deeps / In lays / Maximum Bits / Minimum weeps

The universe is a precision-tuned instrument that reveals the exact intricacies necessary, on a cosmic scale, to support life as we know it on an intimate scale. The vastness of the expanse is neither extraneous nor waste. It is a calculation machine beyond the furthest reaches of what we have heretofore defined intelligence as encompassing. The common scientific conception of it as arising and evolving by chance, merely illustrates a scientific misunderstanding of the interrelation between the words: chance, random, and spontaneous, and an overlooking of fact that a vastly superior intelligence (the very source of all intelligence) might understand ‘chance’ on a simultaneously organic and epochal level entirely capable of producing such a system through those very means

If you eat right. If you think right. If you exercise right. If you breathe right. If you work right. If you stretch right. If you sleep right. If you live right. If you know, what’s right. You will still die. And you will die, *right*. In fact. You may not even survive this, very entertaining, tip-off evening. You may collapse on the floor. Or slip in a tub. Or swallow a wholesome knife. And we will all read about you, tomorrow. In the morning newses’, merciful daily fright. About that guy, who kicked the astral bucket. After shattering his dayglo eyes. But maybe. *Just maybe*. You’ll embrace this sudden sail. Maybe you’ll kiss, the entire verdant sky. With all six senses’, ablaze in Celtic grace. And leave a little Irish lick. Of conamaran maven light. For some small child, on the still soft shoreline. Flying their first majestic memory’s, ephemeral, breathless kite 🌅 🪁

For John O'Donohue: A friend I never met

Flirting and courting with death. Smoking its fag, and tattooing its light. Wearing its skin and granting it life. Downplaying your worth, and dimming your eyes. Wearing its thrill and sporting its tights. Singing its tunes, and reading its lines. Luxuriating in its soothe and uniting its divide. Touching its wet, and thirsting its dry. Unbuttoning its dress and unstrapping its whites. Flying its jets and sailing its nights. Weaving its looms, and selling its sights. Accepting its truth and loving its lies. Using its muse, and uplifting her sighs

A cross check