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this Fictional heart.

the propped up thoughts on opinions created by the professional critic lends no more weight to an issue than the evil propaganda machine at work on the ‘Merikan ideal of public opinion as a whole variety working together as one form of a united anonymous in function of the deeper movement electric behind the skin, this intense spin on things that sights witness without necessarily a being conscious one hundred percent, and so this might imbalance the individual in a direction that suits the needs of a group atmosphere as the bubble once insular now grows to absorb others that are stayed and relevant in their thinking… this creates a certain degree of chance to be interjected into the coward’s awkward tendency to isolate from the rest, and mainly when fear is the motivator no matter what the excuse comes up in question of the questionable errs in opinion in the out there, especially back into the necessary learned device known now as history used as a valuable fulcrum at leisure to train the unwilling beasts sometimes inflicting the self-righteous displays of teachers come-as-you-are preachers feeling validated at throwing away respect for their students forgetful how much they come to learn from the students as much as students learn from them… we are all the studious and hungry artist learning TAO (the art of…) experience on the inside… the casual stance of a faculty at odds with a body raised on misleading information based not within the unspoken gist of what amount the some are willing to risk of the many, waiting while rain won’t fall to risk the mission out of suspicion given to thoughtless and loyal and vicious mad dogs with their fringe pirate radical visions, but what comes to pass Here will soon come to pass on a parallel level mirrored in degrees by our own fettered existence and advanced beyond the years that have passed us all by… a careful some of us live somber outside of this timeline on the edges of reality, only fitting in where there is absolute creativity, but this is where our spirit is bound and not our bodies as human recreation is primordial and physical only… looking a mess for all the other casual terrorists that roam the off-streets walked with by hip manipulators knowing how to make us all feel bad, as jesus was further interpreted as an eso-terrorist of the highest caliber among all the anti-hippie movements with their own grassroots and such heavy on the hard-up redneck cultural terror fetish haunting the various tribes that have come together Here and at once, but not for the show only to grow with the experience and intertwine with the gibbous moon shining down on those who but glimpse this… the magic of the carpet ride demands that the time machine be broken because the alarm is too much to wake the dreamer out of fits as a tendency towards the somnambulate sleeping standing up for what is write, but silence rails against the disused and unfathomed on this phantom parallel we seek to describe Here although we have no necessary words to use in this improvisational cryptic script, the casual Luddite perhaps or some other anachronistic dandy in charge of nothing else but one’s own life… a poetic diatribe that eats the mind let loose within the sedentary struggles against this oppressive mud ball, and sometimes the emotions inflicted back in upon oneself without a reason or warning behind those sinister slippery terms of vague self-betrayal as though mirrored at you through somebody else, that laughing phantom inside of one’s head relents only for a snack while the potential things in life absorb and pass out from this nothingness granted form… the quality of the picture always varying to some degree, angle or another that doesn’t quite fit the wholesome perspective as set in some pocket authority consciousness that tries to consume the consumers willing to provide what precious soul or humanity for convenience, and it is Here that the demiUrge tries to possess a small plateau in between time streams of alternating current flowing from as much as into the great vast and elemental abyss in which everything is cradled in darkest matter depths ever-yielding from the concave of the conclave grouping that seems to try to involve so much of this precious time that we have in service to the greater good… somewhere vague the grasp of that fails me…

Thanks, khet.