I signed a pact agreement attacked in cement that i'd get more sleep and not wake up to blackened ice over the ground in my bedroom the floorboards a crooked house shadows of more forces than I have on my side holding my fifteen seemingly uncoordinated feet because I think i'll return with more confidence from my retreat I recently took thinking my future memories could fill a thousand page book maybe of rhyming verses, and now if I can look back I took snapshots with cameras and eyes photography can go far with songwriting ties when played back to an imageboard of their guts tied together in need knots that need not no support struts no more, but only to tie together in a rosebud which curls upon itself and blends the sounds all close-up intentions are the same with meta-cognating though So i'll just do both within the same constructed rose To send a conciousness adrift, all you need is no thing but once started upon a highway you must wait until spring blooms new flowers on the shoulder where cars are ghetto rigged beneath the sunlight, in logs which still look so big inside a nourishing forest, but on the gravel on the side of a closed-down boarded-up coffee shop which both fries burning the metal in a rubber-warm car where I sacrafice my health to the road country, vacationland is nice but I seem to have a different idea of what I would call the straight lines leading to my destination in rural ohio or northern I N on top of rocks excavated just to flatten the pen in rural ohio or northern I N on top of rocks excavated just to flatten the pen now on 465 northern circle industrial park concrete prairie near the end

My body is in some sort of city halfway 'round the globe your eyes match mine we keep our psyches coiled from a distance i can't plan sparseness i can't forsee what a gaze back upon but i can prepare for a reaction when it's gone now i pace the ruined rug with grooves from the last times like a map of the stars above dipping and weaving objects relate to size i'm in the perfect time at some point in my eyes i can't plan sparseness i can't forsee what a gaze back upon but i can prepare for a reaction when it's gone i can't plan triggers but i can set them down looping back in themselves like rings carved on the lawn

Sea spray falls from distant towns and waves are crashing 'pon the ground breaking up on gravity like layers in an arboretum under foam of ocean brine that crushes glass with pressured lines connecting grey skies to the sea and raining atoms onto me when I was in the infantry I failed to look up and to see Was metal-bent 'til I got pryed my frozen eyelids open wide the waves a-crashin on the shore had ceased to crash and ceased to roar but rather fell about my head and fertilized the things I said meritime atmosphere inland for me to hear (when i'm underneath the ocean or beneath a great lake it rains upon my face like droplets in a race the blue sky on the ground is carried all around a force in particle masses with ambients sounds)

the instantaneous progression ain't enough people training stuff to think with balls and toys of painful raining stuff the horizontal represents the quantum leap into templates cheaply thrown together, i know i could do it better given tools i already know how to use of course so does everyone else so what have they got to lose? since two thousands millions and billions of duplicates are sharing the same pic, gettin' ten thousand different hits and you'll noticed those pics are still around to this day, that's 'cause they're at the bottom of the curve and will stay that way the curve plots the variance of feedback that resemble the shape and within seconds in twenty years maybe nothing will stay how i remember the day when, say, ten years ago the people looked at stuff as slow as centuries past my friend is either wise beyond his years or keeps the lies behind his ears like pencils tucked in past ways in the past which really fast, stays stagnant in speed, when relative you can't tell a bicycle from a sports car or heaven from hell with distortion noises in a darklit room i picture people who have nothing left to lose much farther below and in some other state, both kinds but on the other hand i can't decide on the state of his mind So be OP with no noise to set you free when the red mailbox talks spilling intestines and sticky semen stories on your confused one-liner which you thought would be safe but you have all the freaks and all the leaks at your hands somewhere someplace I'd like to think it was smaller and more localized to my second grade eyes which viewing things had no limit in size i learn and turn back to the times, writing a song where time flies I need to not move my arms when I speak so much and others need to stop filling up walls with meaningless stuff such as actual opinions 'bout people IRL as they say and these supposed piles of steam are on the walls just for the stay no piles of smoking wreckadge caricatures portrayed but as they were IRL as the kids on the ship say as if it sunk vertically painting a perspective IRL just a thrown together carnival ride that lets you get obsessed with yourself i've seen six thousand nineteen nights and I don't think now any are passed without some two strings held in front of the eyes launching their attacks between mountains this triumph with every single sent sentance is lost but still in second grade these have meaning still in the early ages for me, but evolving with the nights I see so me and mine are the first to really have this kind the golden days can be traced with a line of code and what kind of stuff that is meaningless today to me in another kids second grade mind is going to stay and maybe they'll rip off a cLOUDDEAD song, too and feel original writing 'bout cycles like i do it manifests itself in things as big as populations but small enough in the rule-of-thumb confines that I can need some other sensation unavailable on these wavelengths or pavements so i say thanks but i wont lay nameless on any more boards trying to make sense

Icarus flies placing sticks upon thinner gradients a vhs formed wave pattern falling thickly through a swamp and grasshoppers pause their rituals (It's like a million tiny little spider eggs fallin' on the ground makin' pitter-patter sounds i gotta write this down black sky glows, and geometric lights) extending no direction through skies white clouds will bend a thousand miles' height and alto cumulous will plot answers against high light (warm color scheme horizontal patterns like liquids floating through dark air blending into a single vein burning in the night) if you were to notice the bending of waves across the window panes it'd be the same to you if you had only a computing brain for mashing up in molecules some duality neccesary to explain the universe like a salvador dali masterpiece hanging in the art institute somehow sexual somehow nonsensical i won't claim to see everything but i know what i know if only i could detect messier everyday that's what i say image m83, maybe i'd see what became midnight city i'll trace the textures with eyes so bad but i'll see the distance 20 20 never had don't matter to me no it don't matter to me i dont claim to know everything I don't claim to see everything but I know what I know. I wear my hair like a composer when it's hot outside I'll stand in one end of the mirror while one reflection boils down to raw and towering a megolopolis extending all directions Six years prior it doesn't change the concrete absorbing invisible light gathers resulting water splashed down on the ground and then acts as a mirror as water will do being heated and providing more than an adequate view of the the city contained in the puddle which blends into brown background making a subtle connection which draws in the ground, pool, and air in an open system everywhere

blazing arrows scream across the sky like pins and needles with radial balance as if like a virus in a powder game consuming the iris exponentially my city glows like the apple of an eye my city grows in the sector of the sky my city's one when viewed from miles away my city's just a bunch of smaller particles if you looked through the fish-eye lense of a pine needle stalagtite formation from a recent storm you would see a photogenic world like what you see in wide angle shots naturally resting there in countless pieces of glass passively massive in numbers not together but creeping particle by particle into the arms of heaven waiting only to drop them down again as rain where they trickle down their pine needle window panes once again resting but hanging tightly on a spike leaf as you run on the concrete sidwalks making observations from the bus stop to your home an eighth of a mile away and I am a spirit or something that likes the rain but if you were to sit down with a pen and be a mirror you would then be just like it and reflect the scene back to where it began clustered leaves point all askew but somehow in a certain direction my city's particles are on the ground and when it dies the recycle themselves and build flying castles fisheyes on the pines Icarus flies placing sticks upon thinner gradients a vhs formed wave pattern falling thickly through a swamp and grasshoppers pause their rituals (It's like a million tiny little spider eggs fallin' on the ground makin' pitter-patter sounds i gotta write this down black sky glows, and geometric lights)