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notZarella

to dance or not to dance, that is the dilemma, but there is nothing to reason that can ever be construed of as good if there is not a dance or particular rhythm to things in some way shape or form that cannot be automatic to understand as these powerful spirits involved twist along humanity’s potential world soul to wring out destiny as it were… packed into tiny little venues to rage or get laid or whatever the mode of acquisition used to abuse that which is a given related to all the parts of this system that baits us and our decisions to switch into some preternatural condition where our stated mission is abated as though it were ridiculous to mention, the stupid cannot fathom depths to which the atrocious will go to countering the psyche and that it knows to express the dark shadow that recesses into those traumas of life confused as holy investments offering a more knowledgeable position, and it is this seat under which lies the power to rule as one would like because of this vast awareness that comes to light igniting spark after spark of epiphanic enlightenment as humans we try to commodify as resource gathered to make us look better than to actually think about some greater good for the humanity that we are as pieces… as salespeople selling each other on the many methods to meeting a quota upheld as a higher standard madness serving swirling dervish destiny as ruled with an iron mass made of oblivious policies and practiced people policing themselves to mock whatever humane compassion there is in the reality of this human condition, in undercurrent of the primal protean succulent system ensnaring all ascension to power as these similar waves of theory crash against us alone in our psychic elements to pull up a breathing space from some drowning superficial behavior as it attempts to compress us into something that just fits like a box or seems to suit us, and as the rebooting process tries to affect us with the sinister tedium turned obvious of all conclusions we can always find solace in the shaking of one’s own ass for a bit as the shit is verging on getting real or surreal as those backwards to the hip condemn us into as dreamy a slip of the spectrum speculative dramatic fiction spun into yarns of truth as stories to tell their sleeping youth as the music sets elusive magic afoot Here…

Thanks, khet.