There’s too much happening in the world right now for curiosity or escape. OMG — playing dumb, though. That’s the ticket. It’s not really a science, just more time and space. A reflective surface that can hold hard drive. Computer: define, memory:
Something factual, but not necessarily real. A recollection of fiction and dream, or shared-moments. Whatever we can scrape together. It’s important at all times, sometimes. The access of axis. A Tylenol pill.
Necessity to heal, but how? Going to an acupuncturist painted as a dartboard. Not really overwhelming — again, nothing you’ve heard before. A fourth card in the sealed pack. Noodles, fucking: NOODLES!@!!!
NOODLES FOR DAYSSSS!!!!
NOODLES AND CHORDS FOR DAYS
\A//: they-kno; type:
Outside an instant, like. Maybe a fashion show that’s also a food-cart bizarre. Where you think you juswalk into, papi? Mio es conmigo. Enunciation of pride. Hasselhoff. Code, lawlzz,,
Nothing else, but a virtual apothecary. Riddled with anxiety, sitting there on the coach doing absolutely nothing, naked. And maybe an emotion. At some point. No matter what point you at in the world, hi.
And that fucking guy I know nothing about but keep hearing of briefly from people, and I read something by him, so like what do his friends think of him, right? No matter, this man a storm cloud, and it’s raining outside. Fucking eyebrows fleeked-out. *tears of joy crying emoji* Souls are not what you think they is:
Some yearbook of sorts that never really emerged. Five years later. Nobody noticed or even cared. Products that sell you memories. Be with us all, so none shall need forgiven. A Doritos stain on chapel restoration, and nothing else matters:
But eventually feeling this way every time. I mean, every fucking time. There’s nothing else like it, sometimes. But everything at once. A nightmare made:
; is this where the world ends?
Once awhile back at the Belmont Stakes, an acquaintance of both had told me James Ferraro and OPN used to count play-clicks on some website. In no connection to this: consider an adaptation of the adage “Are you a Beatles person or an Elvis person?;” Are you an OPN person or a Rraro person? It’s all in the context, iMO:
Privilege is something I’d wish I’d overlooked. A wallop -of-a situation. You have to earn everything in life. *Fuck you!* You earned that b/c #emojimeme. You should’ve been born elsewhere and as another. I can’t into oblivion with this, nahh. Like, I ain’t no tour guide’s pack-mule. That snipped tail royalty, rebirth in the after-life of every other sold-soul to purchase an Earth. Feast:
Of the six tracks on Four Pieces For Mirai, which are the four FOR Mirai? A floral amalgamation. Fruity without the noir. A sirrah, sorta. Nothing too sauvignon. That smooth finish. Afterglow aways, and yet: no. Still sitting naked in that room for hours, only now listening to music, melting.
Seems there’s an endless “conclusion” to James Ferraro. Nothing short, on the whole; of defining all his works as singular. Four Pieces For Mirai is one of many facets piecing together the artist’s soul. A characteristic of absent individual and together as one.
More about: James Ferraro
