Finger I down...Finger I down...It's like may day, even though spring showers wouldn't bring mayflowers...no safe ships for me please. Dead on the escalator curious about reaching the top isn't my thing. I appreciate the unsolicited concerns though (it's likely from a good place, in the sense of a happy house with blood running under the door, but still, I follow the caring intent at the disco murder party), but the writings work in relation to a mathematical model, that unless you have that background, you know, I know, you know; And that isn't disrespect, hate, or anything else, other than just call it. If it's your thing okay, but it's not. What it all means, too soon to tell really. The bridge though, hits on that transition phase along with calling out the...let's place a claim on her, this innovator, as Marilyn Monroe...you know failing the test of say...attempted elevations among a network. Pass. Not my thing. Already known, so why that hit? Finger I Down...Finger I down....F.I.D. F.I.D. F.I.D. Window Pains, out the door. F.I.D.D.L.E. M.C.G.R.I.D.D.L.E. Flow to a different tune...artspaces...among these fine places...to the end...subconscious spinning, colors mixing...the elegant decay set ins, of time plays that can't be played...like the time before we had a language...like the time we die, living or not...Two, the end, can't seem to make it to the end. It all could be failure, but when the arrangement takes on unexpected and different flavors...it works...it's a lesson straight from the originators of Hip-Hop...Strobing the Emerald City Lights...A different pacing....Like Matrix Slow Motion...Catching the form lapsing as paper bag to paper bag....she's covered up now...so make those moves, then flip the switch again...only instead of strobing...paint over the flyentology pamplets with non-literals underlying the acts of subconscious spaces...It's not on the page...it's never among the lights, but it's there...Two, the end, can't seem to make it to the end, so maybe that's the end?
Peace!
