When you see till the end of civilization, you see the end of duration, end of life, end of civlizied solipses, and the culmation of deth stars and meth heads. You see but do you reallys ee, you smell but you really smell? You share but do you really love, you create but do you really share?
You see a heartist is someone that loves his craft, and someone that doesnt fear experimentaion. Someone that feels free in music and words and hearts and hurts. Who is this me, that mes? This french discus that we didnt discuss. The condescending that pitches to itself. The I know it all, that brings with thim a head of hotneess in a wordly breathing of yellow bellies follower zones and someome that admires the fingers move into themselves.
break bouds, save sounds, benighn like a horse neighing, like a lorde being herself, or a hilton being paris from brooklyn
Is there a basis for the dudes that flew into right into her heart and rigth into her basis of existence, and herself?
Words that begin and words that exhaust through itself. Words make love and make war, words that make us go to war, words that forest itself into a mountain hill where the viberians live in peace and war. Both co-exist.
Reintroduce sounds and wowunds. Mounds into themselves, dancing words and platinum hurts.