(no subject)
Sex is work, shameful degrading work which I can barely pretend to want any longer. A fly's wing lays severed and abandoned in a small metal thimble, it juts out towards the dusty light like an intricately webbed satellite dish.
Colored plywood, particle board, layers of decorative set pieces stacked from previous plays, big shows long ago, mostly forgotten names and funnel-haired elderly women, grey split floating above a faceless Mrs. Doubtfire neath an expanse of thin decorative metal of black tin flowery blooming patterns, like an expanse drawn from a red bird, two angles meet in their shared layer while, within them, whole realms of green games carry on, oblivious. This is the sought higher world of orchestrated coincidence, of timed body releases.
If I said I felt the presence of a spirit, a figure of a body, a black silhouette moving in my periphery, would you doubt my perception? Or would you admit to some similar experience which, perhaps, could not be disregarded fully?
If there is a prison, a polarity which restrains by its very existence, so we are restricted between the higher bandwidth and the lower bandwidth, those boundaries which are not easily breached, but which carry consciousness just the same. Our frequencies, these physical senses, are so narrow in breadth and subject to waves of individual conscious forms, just the same - knowing by physical models of depth and current that this modulation travels horizontally.
Colored plywood, particle board, layers of decorative set pieces stacked from previous plays, big shows long ago, mostly forgotten names and funnel-haired elderly women, grey split floating above a faceless Mrs. Doubtfire neath an expanse of thin decorative metal of black tin flowery blooming patterns, like an expanse drawn from a red bird, two angles meet in their shared layer while, within them, whole realms of green games carry on, oblivious. This is the sought higher world of orchestrated coincidence, of timed body releases.
If I said I felt the presence of a spirit, a figure of a body, a black silhouette moving in my periphery, would you doubt my perception? Or would you admit to some similar experience which, perhaps, could not be disregarded fully?
If there is a prison, a polarity which restrains by its very existence, so we are restricted between the higher bandwidth and the lower bandwidth, those boundaries which are not easily breached, but which carry consciousness just the same. Our frequencies, these physical senses, are so narrow in breadth and subject to waves of individual conscious forms, just the same - knowing by physical models of depth and current that this modulation travels horizontally.