I have a little porch. At the Calico motel. With a honeycomb mattress. Under sunlit blinds. And an old flip clock. That sits mercifully still. A pool of marshmallow below. Makes the slowest cloud speed waves. A reine maîtresse swims within. And Maîtrise drones. Vetting the colony commerce centers. Where light matters. In rainbow golds. Banter about. Like ten tomorrows. Like taste. Perched in quench. An atelier of avenues. Para Gorgeouses. Chronic Inc. Chiseling out the memories. Of eden. Of hell. Of real. Where money means nothing. But 𝑔𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔 it. Means something. Foundries of forged happiness. Glimmers of valse hope. A shape that fates a purpose. The thinnest threads of truth. Throughout it all. The unearthing of the sea. Of life’s taut carbon depths. “it sooner”. “It everywhere”. Sings to me. In tranquil woven streets. Of fragrant moonlit fire. Songs caressed. In signal you
There are 3 levels of awareness: Floral Space. Waterfall Time. And their relation in Seamless Gravity