And as it is, right there in front of here, trickles of “Distant Absence” flutter only senses. Nothing that surreal, or nothing. Just, in a waved motion. Something across — thick, but pure. Not in a gesture, pumping vigorously, light arises, peaking in through “OH!” those fucking cracks, creaking. Wish there was something more clean to “Life Live.” Seeing it right there, like a dream, and you’re not the one whispering because your mouth is clenched. White light tearing through now. Now and right there; here. Half-full, yet flooded already, and most of the time it’s just “Another Hard New Age.” Yet every age, no? How about the rocks and sticks and shit? Their age and grass and air, seeds, water. Prior music and natural sounds. Habitat on habitat, blending and fucking fast for fuss. Fuss and mystery. Mystery for source of light. Ra! Into the future. Again, roughly always and forward. Touch the cleanse. Feel it inside of your inside. Tubular. Everything comes rushing out in colors and streams, nothing solid or concrete, just all evacuation. Retreat//shine\become. Absorb Another Hard New Age.
More about: Innercity
