(no subject)
Ignorance is bliss no wise woman's failed to mention. And surely some koan suggests "neglect leads to perfection." But the more I turn my face from the crowd, the more I feel my back's increasingly compelled, for the sake of escape, to turn a knife on itself, a knife of relief from all the petty insight. And finally, I'll sleep, and I'll sleep through the night.
Bored as fuck with this street corner cover. Study of a face and a figure. Surveying this language as a game. Surveillance of this language as the plague. The dimension of persistance condemns.
This portrait of karma, crafted in accident. A text-book seduction, minus the text in the language of ghost.
And so we ran, like the wolves were biting. The inhibitions of their prey kept them from screaming, "Scratch my back and I will stab you in yours."
And so I choose to live this life alone, with these teeth marks. But I predict: I'll have to sink my fangs in someone else's heart to heal my own.
Just a victim split: one part for the wolves, one part for you. But I'll grow weary soon, weary of this fractal code, weary of this hallway lined with ghosts.
Just a scratch upon the skin, a drop of blood to let them in, their words will cause the sweetest fracture from a stone's throw.
Just a scratch upon the skin, a drop of blood to welcome them, parasitic, viral critics, or lovers, like spirits, mingling in the mist that we crafted.
Circle Takes The Square:
A Non-Objective Portrait Of Karma
Bored as fuck with this street corner cover. Study of a face and a figure. Surveying this language as a game. Surveillance of this language as the plague. The dimension of persistance condemns.
This portrait of karma, crafted in accident. A text-book seduction, minus the text in the language of ghost.
And so we ran, like the wolves were biting. The inhibitions of their prey kept them from screaming, "Scratch my back and I will stab you in yours."
And so I choose to live this life alone, with these teeth marks. But I predict: I'll have to sink my fangs in someone else's heart to heal my own.
Just a victim split: one part for the wolves, one part for you. But I'll grow weary soon, weary of this fractal code, weary of this hallway lined with ghosts.
Just a scratch upon the skin, a drop of blood to let them in, their words will cause the sweetest fracture from a stone's throw.
Just a scratch upon the skin, a drop of blood to welcome them, parasitic, viral critics, or lovers, like spirits, mingling in the mist that we crafted.
Circle Takes The Square:
A Non-Objective Portrait Of Karma