Floating with a pen again
This time I felt as if I was in a control room inside of my head, and my body was completely detached from me. It was amazing. When I was writing this it felt as if I were just thinking these words and my hand was following that command (which is how it usually happens, but I felt completely detached). This is actually really lame, it doesn't make any sense. It shouldn't. But at the time.
Perhaps I should stimulate that the feelings which I now enplace. No?
This requires a thorough knowledge of the past. No.
Nothing here is really correctly settled or really overturned.
Another mourning. A secretless sound.
Let's go! Let's go! We're no longer being born.
Beautiful letters to a beautiful soul/song.
A thousand letters for a final chance.
An awful singing on another seavessel
Or a secret notion of blood in blood-vessels and how much it hurts.
Perhaps a turbulent, mellow, and honest turn-away.
The blood predicted my glory, but not the bursting feeling.
Nothing is precious, nothing is endless.
And get to listening to other songs.
Turn the page and change a clock.
Perhaps another golden, softly motorized glittering bug.
Smoke a regular soda | drink the perfect haze.
Another man told another. Don't think twice, the world is always watching.
Collecting letters and collecting lore.
A brief, submention of an honest song.
("I control you, body, from a window in my brain")
Don't go to sleep, Fox, the only fidelity here is Ocean.
"How wonderful, beautiful Ocean. How short and life-like my own monsters."
The other thing, before I forget to mention
A feeling of music inside my head. A soundtrack for every event.
At the entrance of their life--these rose-colored devilish opponents,
ringing sad and meek, but not doubtful completely.
And so the crowd goes floating in and out of Secret Space
Into things and jobs and more things, until they reach what was never near.
A lowful mission of a song.
The children I hear and never ignore.
Stretch the letters to mend that song.
Over and over less three plus four.
Josephine. Josie. Jo. Awful roses more and more.
More letters cause disflow, less romantic than the classic love song.
A followup to the letter three.
Surely you don't believe in vessels swallowed by the sea.
I need more than fingers.
It has everything else, but he forgot the whole lot.
Perhaps I should stimulate that the feelings which I now enplace. No?
This requires a thorough knowledge of the past. No.
Nothing here is really correctly settled or really overturned.
Another mourning. A secretless sound.
Let's go! Let's go! We're no longer being born.
Beautiful letters to a beautiful soul/song.
A thousand letters for a final chance.
An awful singing on another seavessel
Or a secret notion of blood in blood-vessels and how much it hurts.
Perhaps a turbulent, mellow, and honest turn-away.
The blood predicted my glory, but not the bursting feeling.
Nothing is precious, nothing is endless.
And get to listening to other songs.
Turn the page and change a clock.
Perhaps another golden, softly motorized glittering bug.
Smoke a regular soda | drink the perfect haze.
Another man told another. Don't think twice, the world is always watching.
Collecting letters and collecting lore.
A brief, submention of an honest song.
("I control you, body, from a window in my brain")
Don't go to sleep, Fox, the only fidelity here is Ocean.
"How wonderful, beautiful Ocean. How short and life-like my own monsters."
The other thing, before I forget to mention
A feeling of music inside my head. A soundtrack for every event.
At the entrance of their life--these rose-colored devilish opponents,
ringing sad and meek, but not doubtful completely.
And so the crowd goes floating in and out of Secret Space
Into things and jobs and more things, until they reach what was never near.
A lowful mission of a song.
The children I hear and never ignore.
Stretch the letters to mend that song.
Over and over less three plus four.
Josephine. Josie. Jo. Awful roses more and more.
More letters cause disflow, less romantic than the classic love song.
A followup to the letter three.
Surely you don't believe in vessels swallowed by the sea.
I need more than fingers.
It has everything else, but he forgot the whole lot.