our land
to apply for achitecture school i need a self portrate. if i could, i would apear as a dot to the world. foced to appear as lines and colors i end up as a floating head ready to be painted with the viewers white cinamatic primer. a two dimentinal view from wich to consider the directions im capable of. well i guess we have layers of outlined bee hives and futuristic color on our side. enough, those alyes will turn on me at the slightest imaginated judmentalized mozaic mentality of my perciever.
hmm. exactly. shivering puddles in the wind. red foamy water and clouds that are on vacation from the tropics. train wreks on snowy melting plastite ore mountain tops. colored santa boxed rolling down, arond, the town, ba dum. its a story about salt and steel, about engins and antarctica. red and white striped pols and fantacy particals of celebration. planted trees and shipments sinking in ice storms. its a pewter keychine kindof manhattan skyscraper lonlyness messed up untuned brass bells in bright unharmonic distortions held by sweaty trembling hands hidden in fleece gloves. its the days end, and its over and over and over. and there is not enough electicity in the sky to save any of it for later.
later. like atlantis shed a tear over its own creation. tears like blue medallions pooling on ice that isnt supposed to be melting. well, it is. thats all i can say about that. i hope i can swim. no wait. wait. can we please wiat? no, its been said its too late.
hmm. exactly. shivering puddles in the wind. red foamy water and clouds that are on vacation from the tropics. train wreks on snowy melting plastite ore mountain tops. colored santa boxed rolling down, arond, the town, ba dum. its a story about salt and steel, about engins and antarctica. red and white striped pols and fantacy particals of celebration. planted trees and shipments sinking in ice storms. its a pewter keychine kindof manhattan skyscraper lonlyness messed up untuned brass bells in bright unharmonic distortions held by sweaty trembling hands hidden in fleece gloves. its the days end, and its over and over and over. and there is not enough electicity in the sky to save any of it for later.
later. like atlantis shed a tear over its own creation. tears like blue medallions pooling on ice that isnt supposed to be melting. well, it is. thats all i can say about that. i hope i can swim. no wait. wait. can we please wiat? no, its been said its too late.