(no subject)
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The dream has made a slurry of the 20th century that comes out like opium. Addictive and entrancing. The temptation and allure is so solid it can not be denied. I image my own exit. fifty seems a good starting point. Then a quick chill wind sweeps me into a 1927 bordello where everything is just as it should be, and where it should have stayed. No more abusive stares from the judgmental eyes who refuse to accept this erotique with which I am doomed to travel, and no more misunderstandings from the irreverent boys who gather streetside as my fleshy corpse is parading for their amusement. Freedom in a quick step back, And then there is love. Something we've lost in this so-called advanced civilization. This is no new aeon. This is a new dark age. Book burners and mechanized brain control. Sickening synthetic impostor of the real love. Sex in boxes with no genuine touch. Music without aesthetic. Lifeless existence. And so I see escape as something blessed. Age where a tenement window and a lover with a spike were the only real downfalls, and that is better to deal with than this generation of hatred and scorn. Trust me. It is for the best. And in transition the sweeper transforms everyone.
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FCGST (sensory mode planning)
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The dream has made a slurry of the 20th century that comes out like opium. Addictive and entrancing. The temptation and allure is so solid it can not be denied. I image my own exit. fifty seems a good starting point. Then a quick chill wind sweeps me into a 1927 bordello where everything is just as it should be, and where it should have stayed. No more abusive stares from the judgmental eyes who refuse to accept this erotique with which I am doomed to travel, and no more misunderstandings from the irreverent boys who gather streetside as my fleshy corpse is parading for their amusement. Freedom in a quick step back, And then there is love. Something we've lost in this so-called advanced civilization. This is no new aeon. This is a new dark age. Book burners and mechanized brain control. Sickening synthetic impostor of the real love. Sex in boxes with no genuine touch. Music without aesthetic. Lifeless existence. And so I see escape as something blessed. Age where a tenement window and a lover with a spike were the only real downfalls, and that is better to deal with than this generation of hatred and scorn. Trust me. It is for the best. And in transition the sweeper transforms everyone.
°
FCGST (sensory mode planning)
°