From
The Book of Resonating
If you feel like sex, be sure to wake me up.
I should be collaborating, writing this down.
Government dotted with its joke mirrored hot pants.
Today's highlight from
D.C.’s escorts: “You can change yourself into infinity, but still get the changes to the location from where you left...” That feels clear.
Perhaps my escort suffers like me from shaving in a symbolic realm.
Again, I’m doing an accordion fold, an étude-incarnation about the plu-construction of sensibility. The plot concerns D and D-2 who meet younger D-3 with a vinyl sleeve up his private place. I’m just using this idea as a springboard to bring the étude to mystical symbolism within a rational theme of imprecise turmoil, recycling once or twice. We witness destruction of a blues pub and its improvised scaffolding, disintegrating like runic practices, flung-out interiors silhouetted in acrylic behind projections of glass screening the ‘official’ episode. However I believe we’re past the middle and nearing the end of that theme; now it’s a higher number with incidents of homesickness without inebriation, long division, complex facticity that wounds tear open and heal slowly for enduring pain and disappointment and failure, climbing uphill and sliding back down just before turning 17, biting down, gritting my teeth, growing up a little, suffering a little moving in with my parents because they like me... I just don’t worry: It’s my best urban work, a tight 100 hours of narrative casually parading as self-help boilerplate turning in polyphonic leitmotifs. It’s on an uncapped Godzillian scale, reflecting what happens when melt re-ices, raising sea levels. Just hope I have the backbone. My greatest fear is going deeper into my inner trippy, conceptual junk — I’d be dragging a palm frond around at four a.m. That would kill my parents.
Add but an eyeblush of exposed material & this seems a desperate measure, and it is, in reckless hands, yet for a silent partner like you there’s depth to surface and un-despairing perceptions of what won’t be contained. If you’re the anamorphic type, you can pick a spot in informatics and be
seen as well as seem on top, breathing life, o Swami, nothing to curate nor disbelieve.
D is still a little wiped. So is D-2. D-3 is frowning, ready to be seen. D-2 is blabbing. D is a little fucked up too. “Just starting one.” “Cool.” The thing is not to get fucked up too often.