Mastery of nothing to master.
If personal gain drives desire, its resultant is
how history views you. Hence leaders’ desire
to suppress, or write ‘history’
anew.
In some places, here is now. There is no clinical bar time, here is a determined fear ‘here’ is about to end, and slide into ‘after’. The pink was so intense, she said she still had enough little girl in her to embrace it. He derived a word for the paranoia of the between, which leads to the end... it was enebritemporalfalsiphobia. We laughed uprowdiously about it—in the straight hetro Mexican joint and the drunken dregs were checking out, staggering to the door, as the giant donut cop wove from the minuscule stall, stunned by the professionalism of the young girl, and the nervous arrivers were cessed by each other’s asses in line. "They give you lots of wine and cheese to lubricate you with and then you do your thing." It was a test; the mahogany of all the heads who have hung there, defeated by life and drink, combined to remain starstruck of too ‘on’ becomes torn forms of art against dirty walls;
and the man’s name was Aakwpewoehj, or some twisted spelling of such, suggesting curves exposing hidden corners of three-walled rooms, our beings constitute the boxes rooms define, like begging sounds of unheard music projections random strangers pronounce jungle whoops upon, the cutting into unseen vines waiting to be grasped (etc.). He was an odd fellow, with a mentality carved into trees twenty- five feet tall, as ‘fresh’ thoughts are the initials of explorers lost to eye-level.
The intensity of fear, is we’ll be duped or judged. He said the American girl saved him from Morocco [where he was?] rather starboard of port, struggling with everything that mattered he was so paranoid of losing his beliefs, in the Atlas Mountains the shamans orchestrated, his comings and goings within went without. I wondered when this happened, and if the American girl was real. I wanted badly to ask, but imagination got the better of me, as others were rapt with his sortie. He has a nasty scar parting his face which seemed to pulse as he spoke; I wanted too validate its story, and speak for it ... for I was certain it told an entirely different version of this tale. I had thousands of Is to concentrate into a vision of self which projected stirring stories into a mythos so elemental, I could use it to fend off my too many truisms to realize or count.
During the Gold rush, our hills were denuded of lumber, and businesses took residence in abandoned ships, mud bound, or slowly decaying into the harbor, where the garbage was dumped. Water arrived by Donkey and flue, and respectable establishments cavorted with gun-fortified mining claims. Growth was unprecedented; gun fortifications were built to fend off the threat England posed, of coveting California for its own, capitalizing on a war-weary America ... but the dunes’ winds filled them, as fast as they were poured. The proposal to reclaim a wasteland, fell from the minds of a few who worldly, knew Europe had succeeded at far vaster plans, wrenching acres from nature’s dry or watery grasp, to luxuriously farm. The area was inaccessible by horse and buggy; the winds were so immense animals would turn from the blasting sand ... there were no passable roads, and no shelters.
A few visionaries realized no grand cities exist without parks, and set themselves to the ominous task of thwarting greed, avarice and other (deadly?) sins lurking by would-be developers. They sought the largest piece of land they could find, for a park of epic proportion. Where some see no value, others seem to pause, and experience wealth. They choose the path of personal, or common gain, when they commit intentions to explore the feeling. Choosing the latter path, the proponents of the former band together, in an unusual show of single purpose, to eradicate you who mirror their own disgust with the path they have chosen. Honesty snares the thieves corrupt in their dens, simply to brandish arms, and massacre those who’d expose them, knives in victories' backs at dark. It is easier not to choose, and state your intention on the soul, you carry around. We follow the intensity of the Einstein until the Hitler kills him, leveling our gun to followers, for the subsequent round. A corrupt inner government, forgave the success of the park they claimed couldn’t be done, by firing its staff and abandoning it for many years. The leaders had run it with such eccentric efficiency, it made the city workings a laughingstock. People up and down the line were profiting from graft; this was their livelihood; something had to be done.
Which side are you on?
how history views you. Hence leaders’ desire
to suppress, or write ‘history’
anew.
In some places, here is now. There is no clinical bar time, here is a determined fear ‘here’ is about to end, and slide into ‘after’. The pink was so intense, she said she still had enough little girl in her to embrace it. He derived a word for the paranoia of the between, which leads to the end... it was enebritemporalfalsiphobia. We laughed uprowdiously about it—in the straight hetro Mexican joint and the drunken dregs were checking out, staggering to the door, as the giant donut cop wove from the minuscule stall, stunned by the professionalism of the young girl, and the nervous arrivers were cessed by each other’s asses in line. "They give you lots of wine and cheese to lubricate you with and then you do your thing." It was a test; the mahogany of all the heads who have hung there, defeated by life and drink, combined to remain starstruck of too ‘on’ becomes torn forms of art against dirty walls;
and the man’s name was Aakwpewoehj, or some twisted spelling of such, suggesting curves exposing hidden corners of three-walled rooms, our beings constitute the boxes rooms define, like begging sounds of unheard music projections random strangers pronounce jungle whoops upon, the cutting into unseen vines waiting to be grasped (etc.). He was an odd fellow, with a mentality carved into trees twenty- five feet tall, as ‘fresh’ thoughts are the initials of explorers lost to eye-level.
The intensity of fear, is we’ll be duped or judged. He said the American girl saved him from Morocco [where he was?] rather starboard of port, struggling with everything that mattered he was so paranoid of losing his beliefs, in the Atlas Mountains the shamans orchestrated, his comings and goings within went without. I wondered when this happened, and if the American girl was real. I wanted badly to ask, but imagination got the better of me, as others were rapt with his sortie. He has a nasty scar parting his face which seemed to pulse as he spoke; I wanted too validate its story, and speak for it ... for I was certain it told an entirely different version of this tale. I had thousands of Is to concentrate into a vision of self which projected stirring stories into a mythos so elemental, I could use it to fend off my too many truisms to realize or count.
During the Gold rush, our hills were denuded of lumber, and businesses took residence in abandoned ships, mud bound, or slowly decaying into the harbor, where the garbage was dumped. Water arrived by Donkey and flue, and respectable establishments cavorted with gun-fortified mining claims. Growth was unprecedented; gun fortifications were built to fend off the threat England posed, of coveting California for its own, capitalizing on a war-weary America ... but the dunes’ winds filled them, as fast as they were poured. The proposal to reclaim a wasteland, fell from the minds of a few who worldly, knew Europe had succeeded at far vaster plans, wrenching acres from nature’s dry or watery grasp, to luxuriously farm. The area was inaccessible by horse and buggy; the winds were so immense animals would turn from the blasting sand ... there were no passable roads, and no shelters.
A few visionaries realized no grand cities exist without parks, and set themselves to the ominous task of thwarting greed, avarice and other (deadly?) sins lurking by would-be developers. They sought the largest piece of land they could find, for a park of epic proportion. Where some see no value, others seem to pause, and experience wealth. They choose the path of personal, or common gain, when they commit intentions to explore the feeling. Choosing the latter path, the proponents of the former band together, in an unusual show of single purpose, to eradicate you who mirror their own disgust with the path they have chosen. Honesty snares the thieves corrupt in their dens, simply to brandish arms, and massacre those who’d expose them, knives in victories' backs at dark. It is easier not to choose, and state your intention on the soul, you carry around. We follow the intensity of the Einstein until the Hitler kills him, leveling our gun to followers, for the subsequent round. A corrupt inner government, forgave the success of the park they claimed couldn’t be done, by firing its staff and abandoning it for many years. The leaders had run it with such eccentric efficiency, it made the city workings a laughingstock. People up and down the line were profiting from graft; this was their livelihood; something had to be done.
Which side are you on?
posted by daresaycom at 2:34 PM
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