starfang

for a world unable to stomach its own reflection for all the various wrong reasons, unable to stomach all the right reasons, nothing new, whats new. for a world filled with such beautiful ethereal smoke sculpture, it is quite frightening to move around in, one cannot destroy a work of art with a sweep of hand, it cannot be that easy. but it is, works of art were once the primal scream against time and hope, are now the commerce of skin and bone, the mundane sweeps of hand become. and when they are create destroy destroy and when we are cause, effect and meaninglessness abruptly clarified and brought to life, except what was is a dream, was a dream, stillness of life acquires a newfold meaning as artifact, time travel, in the edifice of sunlight just so for only so many times, but addictive with each toll, as art always is, literacy capable of exponential illusions in life, causality a slowly sweeping palliative. for life as its own sake, the actions of movement, rest and change with a contrived blindness to the mirror, discarding fades of moments and time with equal misstep chat chat and hope, is the comfort of this age, not wrong, whats wrong. but the immortal craving to have been, fully visible, recorded and archived, just a few minutes ago, it continues to be a pointless feature of non-existence, addiction to the grand theater of I. the test of time lies wildly scattered in the continuous deception of morning light, varnishing the blind seers, and just sort of being there