Shifty paraiso

Passions in words, irregardless of what they may be; the concequences of coincidence and the paraiso or something. Thrumming difficulty drawing garish dread at loss for words and un-common engagements. The lingering intuitive vexing isn’t a surity of mine own. Break the tide of how are you today for the fifteenth time from a stranger unstructured and untying vibrant gaps of supposed nuances in the common to uncommons and the ideas of transitioning pardon the interruptions and the common inner blasts of fury at situation’s conflict with ideas. Our situation’s have such power to reinforce the breaking away of ideas from thought frames more based on violence toward criminals than violence toward police. By the way, rambling nicely and then heavily coursing out something in harshness and slight vulgar passion tends to leave some of my favorite silences. (followed by a lapse or pause of varying length followed by a gape of some sort or a harsh rubbing off). That is to say; I don’t want to be evangelical about my ideas, you cannot force understanding and you cannot force healing, but to get the point across is motherfucking necessary.

A humyn body as consideration over raging conflicts breaking up pieces of conciousness to misconstrue language based on casualties in hit and miss. Misconstrued deviations in bare functions of co-postulated sources framing places farther from myself to hear my own wonderment crash back into what I can’t possibly get away from. And render!

The field is constantly moving; mucousal sheaths bending and melding to fill or create space to then transfer and consider filling with more space or further positions. The context of cortex in conglomerate reverberations of forgery. Estrogen and progesterone; the medium of bones and the sinking digestion of minerals (magnesium) by estrogen to help form lacunae to fill with blasts of necessary formed and unformed data. Calcidiol, calcitriol; endoneurial energetics.

There is so much that I need to know. Now. There is so much that I needed to already have known by now. Shit. Everything.

Sure, try, roping in corners and convex lenses; handwritten pages and strange stitches. Bewary about that sure fire miss fire conjugate of praxis in skipping a consonant or something like et; borrowing or bartering around language I don’t know enough about nothing. And there’s the teacher I hope myself to be for myself in the back of my mind somewhere when I’m considering literature that creates a strange offset of hormones to decode themselves according to attitudes and considerations in thought which then could characterize it’s movements in further potentials.

Porch swings and see, that’s the thing, the changing of conditions so quickly the snow built up on the porch and canvas shoes, the sound of frozen water breaking; we are stealing away the winter for ourselves someplace tucked away and slightly vacant. Stare a starry sky to being lit clear and harsh along a horizon that shifts in and out of places between ridges and valley lines so desolate and bright harsh biting cold. Breathing illuminated the shadows cast across lights shadowing dense reaches of slightly moving pattern; a shadow falls across a beam of light i’m breathing cold air onto and gathers clarity in perspectives of simulated glancing from all edges of a medial casting.

Oh, conditions; grant us this hour for the outcries of anarchy, of love and rage and the beautiful idea of total freedom. [I don’t want to write a doctrine]

Wolves pad heavily their bellies down toward the snow and slightly dragging in the depth of cold toward themselves or kicking it in mounds to create a warmer place to sleep. Or to keep your blood moving. You wear me out, kicking and screaming to build warmer places to sleep; and, obviously, strange, lone, stranger, not just the warmth of a domicile. Warmth of mind; bitterness doesn’t make any sense as a constructive indicative of cold in a personality; the bitterness is a root, like absinthe or something, not the type drawn so hard from wormwood: and the cold is harsh smarting in disagreeing, not the type to solve with tidier syntax and spellings.

NOTHING…

A sense for feeling a phrase of meaning in a glance of posture or pause in language. A certain slant or gesture to catalog what could be entirely concentrated in portions of filtrate shifting contextually according to autonomous space. Justifying irregularities for nothing to forget the solitary isolation methods and consider the possibilities of communing. Glimpses our brains cache of inter-correlate co-postulate data according to commensurable lapses in the distance fathomed between. Dimension is an illusion, the forethought to bending a curve in a protein along a path to deviate in some relevance or splatter to differentiate even further. Epiphenomenon, the chaos of composure in actual coincidence; the stances capability to carry a coincidence in language. A movements possible rise to surprise you from all of the contextual shifting of compensation and assumption on movement and memory, on the distance between, the quickly tamping curves in winnowed flesh carving itself to form bio-films of pressure in sinking past and between the gripping mucous of interstitial happenstance. Dimly calm flexing patterns of postulates for timing out relevance in thought and its projections in static pulses and concentrated tributaries of vinous limbs wrapped carelessly and carefully in channels of spectrum formulating dimension for practical past interruptions. Its all the same patterns in slight differentiation, working in certain concentrate at particular methods.

For the love of words and forgetfulness necessary to the breath in a stance of thought; how could you possibly remember? It’s seems more impossible to forget, at times, than to remember. The idea of forgetting something that has been stored or projected and converted in one way or another is almost impossible itself from ONLY observation with no perspective. Subjects of matter clashing harshly with logic and non-communicative rigors of silencing sentencing. Long chains of noise attached to one another, catching up motions projecting coincidence in cognitive reason and hiding language. It isn’t hidden, it persists without considerate. How could we forget to recall or remember the idea that an idea was one forgotten? Pulsing matrices of rhythmic timing and intricacies based on formulate gaps in reasoning.

A necessary stance to consideration, the formidable cold of silences and the harsh wreathing twines of stretching examples of experimentation and ramification therein. What thoughts have you dremt yourself to test you with? What places has your mind been abused in? The relevance in emotional pain foregrounding conceptions of feelings, ideas, or impressions; fortitude to slip from relevance that is purposed for deceit to challenge procuring the cause of such supposed embarrassment and surprise. Much to mine, deceit is necessary to relevant thought; positions for different sorts of wondering for myself in the wonderment of knowledge grasping out catches of spellings and misplacement of sudden realizations. Like avoidance, accommodation patterning for catching certain glimpses of pattern or method in retaining the distance necessary to function with the foreboding. Thick, sinking feeling; the weight of emotion in ratio, individuality passively and quietly, quickly as violently as you need. SILENCE>

there’s a harsh blare of harassment and annoyance that’s parting carelessly with thrashing fury at justifying a fucking consideration in thought; have you any right to consider…..

Blank space to a computer is no such wonderment therein nor compensations for bearing the weight of an idea. To find actual randomness in postulated data is necessary to actually formulate path; there is no new path, nor old; it’s all chaotic coincidence in timing and spacial assumption. The idea that something could truly be random, the idea that something could actually be forgotten. Participant thresholds for memorization do exist as actuality beyond the assumptive power of external apex non-present in body. (have faith, dear, it will come to you.) GOD IS DEAD!

it only seems.

spinning out stratum of magnified consequence
in movement
and given hands for giving hearts
or something
bodies are colliding with
but not so violently as expected
more of a morbidly delicate dance
soft decadence in decay
and absorption
bits and pieces
grouping at times
and singularity at others
though you wouldn’t notice et.
Hitting someone elses lines
without outside perspectives
or assumed ones avoiding
postulated projections
of observational patterns
oh, ! the singularity of coincidence
or supposed submissions
of intellect to intelligibility
[[it’s…probably just invaginative particians of inner matrices]]