Artist’s Concern

 

And in a totally new paragraph, indeed, things are joyable. (If you are not joy able, perhaps you are still in the old paragraph.) Intended implemental flasts (first and last, inclusive) of intentions crank out simple, mundane complications, and the place is at a loss for ergs (once we dyne, it feels like nap time). Statement (once more). A much better way of confusing attitudes veers to the right to slide quite handily into a comma, eventually leading to disparate inconclusions before it jumps over another comma and ends in a question, but what of that? My wings are on and I’m ready to fly, even though waives of farewell hold me down (I can’t leave without wondering where I am as you read this) to a pre-flight check morning in transition… time to switch; ignition, blast off at last to the silent streamways in fluxive space (of the infinite potential between your ears) where deep ranging assumptions are more than a fathomable calculation and the outer limits are verbal only (unless you’ve been paying attention as you read this). Bands of shimmering light (now taking your calls on the all request line weekend) are shown in preparation to presentation, limning the view with a picture of sound advice. The stage (has been cleared of the last successful flop and) is set to act and record, the wingings (I’m playing Icarus and can’t wait to get up and at it) of fire streak out in climactic fanfare (no matter how hard I fan, I never seem to fare well on this flight, and have a general emotional melt-down, sending me over and out until the next show) as the audient archetype yields his story bit by random bit and the disc covering factor (still lumbaring behind) holds the mood in something to be preserved (like a peach of a jamb) as a back up plan. (Back up to try again.) Here’s mud in your aye, dirt cheap. Haphazance takes the cake (let them eat toast) for doling out one piece of minding at a time, conducted entirely within a closed environment (nothing gets in and nothing escapes, so we are only guessing at what’s going on out there), as linear rectifications align (wrecked a linear dimension and it needs re-pairing, pointing to the two spots between) and wait the transition to basic mechanics; to wit that I’m here, and so are you, somehow: exactly pared. Pardon me while I charge the fume (banking on the harmonic kitsch in sink-o-patience of my credit chord scar) and wait back stage for your entrance.

 

City Life2.5 inches square… just completed…

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