are there thoroughfares where our pro-ducted trivial fashioning becomes its own a life and thus turns a concept into reality? a place lodged in imagination somewhere between the oh-so classically-defined shadow where the subconscious dark matter of all perception uses jagged little barbs as set of cilia particular peculiarity parallel to what may be a wise experiential decision that as humans digesting the real further can confine in our passions onto the “knowns-and-unknowns” found in playgrounds and battlefields that soon consist of those marked parameters which contain us within oblong finality that either burns or breaks down in this decidedly unappealing journey of once we get to a certain narrowed idea of a ‘what it is we think life is truly to us’ as then the individuals who perceive any duality at all, that as rite of productive constructive …
out of Context;
‘dysfunction fashioned by some as being hip… these people are idiots and in the long run we all die anyway so what other conclusion does one need except nihilism and love when the crass and embittered sides of our thoughts require that fuel surging triumphant fury through the furnace a soul becomes channeled properly though never with the programs one sees upon the tv screens causing bewildering patterns to emerge when no one else yet is to look in timed harmony with the rest as humanity stacks its invisible odds on the worst bets, surrender was never words talked about when heavy doubts are revealed exposing the trends for any possible mends for that cosmic tapestry we are caught lounging on as seen by some perhaps as a still life from afar on islands of free will…’
out of Context;
‘understanding whose mistake am i anyway though that never needs to be considered a fact of record when that record skips relevant information for simple trash strewn askew and to be played back yet never quite sounds the same as the time they were placed into immortality by way of tape pulled compiled and edited together once the monkeywrench stops twisting and torquing a situation solid screwed…’
out of Context;
‘in the social dynamics as then in which today known as lessons popular by the main masters in charge of ascertaining what common sense exactly is as though a kind of human magic subconsciously upheld as the right means of doing anything but implies that stupidity too be mute to continue collaborating as linear catalyst…’
out of Context;
‘with few rare exceptions, the fact that these works exist at all how living life engages itself while in weathering supposed deathly consequences when pretensions rise to the skyscraper heights of an overwhelming confusion amidst emotional clutter so unique that we all carry with us that most intimate of journeys along the negative steps shadowing ourselves for we are the wardens of our own personal prisons defined by our owned patterns of belief through trial and debacle…’
out of Context;
‘human fundamentals of courtesy and respect lost on deaf ears and eyes that hear what the heart is trying to convey as an observational organ in a sense very much like us that brain with nerves and strain stressing the system with a pain that will not relent peacefully as comfort is a dying art of fleeting ideals not represented the same ways as the traditions may have started as minds that were opened to novelizations of a permanent short story that every few centuries finds a permeation in order to repeat the process as its standard of contracted pathways whose currency and circuitry change as a malleable stream of consciousness informing the creatures we are Here, and always dealing with this as tainted service-to-disease that even the opportunistic act of our fascist vulture culture carrying on…’
out of Context;
‘the resonating repercussions struck playing us against one another so convinced of our own righteous stakes to be claimed by these casually caustic voices who restrain us inside of our own heads through thinking in these uniquely individual states united by genetic dispositions and environmental equivalents of the sense of duty and honor that plague our offended egos, but subversive directions permeate the vastly stuffed reality into a pregnant and oversaturated compression that raises the levels of tension like the moon with the tides in repetition fully and unavoidably present in the suspension of disbelief Here too unorganized…’
out of Context;
‘in these conformist mosh pits of splendid filth and ecstasy jostling our accreditation through a restless intimidated release as energy is exhausted by this criminal age experiencing itself subjectively everyone a bad guy inches away from doing a dastardly deed or two when the time comes as respect for the obscene pushes us into classic struggles with morality and chance, but we never stopped acting children even as we grow-up to then become this conceptual human fleeting following all standards to ease our relationships with others into that pool of drowning possibilities potentially lost tossed to the four corners where perhaps magic can exist without the consensus pressure of society Now taunting the natives…’
out of Context;
‘inside such a succulently-caged organism… this shameless age of endarkenment that is making little sense as example because a logic in retrospect hasn’t occurred to affect positively the trend to switch these frames and phrases in order to meet any demand needed to break the cycles upon cycles of which deliberate obscurity a subtle sheet of proliferating ignorance moving slowly clouds in the mind’s sky stormy, in that fluctuating organ allowing for sight into imagination as the positions where a mortal life remains tethered to the Here and Now though this “mind†as we yet know it doesn’t need to stay completely immersed in an organic reality…’
out of Context;
‘laugh now at the dismissing ways of the ignorant mass stiff with competitive opportunism up its ass like a stick stuck even as this charismatic cystemic infection is in a process of covertly coveting your ass trying to scare you into choosing any sides in a subtle struggle to become dominant, the cruel insulting jokes choking a soft oft-mated companion in cheque by the patterns of chosen games piling up like unwanted discards in a deck before the dealing of hands we are given to raise up to the privilege of our past seeking defensive glances as we soon hold information to which we are privy far too close to our chests to ever read clearly…’