the highest form of self protection is mercy, haplotes amidst an atmospheric death, a tear in the arrangement of circumstances that enclothe a life, audits of friction and unfolding, vehicles of exchange. it sends the softest shockwave to the sensing foot of the clearing you soar through like a sunstone intact under a lazurite stork's tongue, leaving behind reaccordances in fortune. an unreadable future perfect sterilizes its suture, afterword fuses to atomwende exhailed in the acausal. an externality, one by one. if the pitch of blood boils horizontal, its plasma coils are put back to the shalott shuttle of facial law, one enworlded whorling in one. if it holds to the vertical, keys of glass may be blown, and from your tastebud's stars icing. their fall tarps the offset but if not turned in time, these frozen bulbs thaw to an algol algae bloom. the virgin substance remains unchanged, tensions undo themselves in its wake, the good attracts itself to itself

i'm not sure if curation is a moral failing, but i'm always offering myself as a host for its rewritten gene, mending the ensigned body. is abstraction a virtuous refinement of the "soul," truly preparation for dying … is it a thorn beading artifice from your thumb, often misunderstood in itself and moralized so headily, or the ikebana of personality, light music floating in from the fullness of the material, islands mooring your heart … you fish for the private life of objects then think to uphold their wish for movement, you build yourself into the vessel for playtime buoyancy, enrhythmed naïf and curving the world. aesthetic specialization may be our noose. we have to tighten it further and tie the arc of history. still, inspiration is sweetening and justifies itself effortlessly, it's endless. there will always be more to learn, that is where the fun of it lies, aleatory seedpods blown to a different aerial pattern from the longevity of exchange, communal diffusion. you are laid down at the heels of the other, emptied of pretense or expectation, diligent to pass over to knowledge and remember what is unfastened there, a cavalcade of references and lacunae, all you continuously do not know, the daunting task ahead to congeal out of nothing, the stasis whose secret is always transported through a trellispulse of silent formation, the dreamwork of latencies, which is maybe where the most vivid luminosities are waiting. the experience of art is the motion of this remembrance, loosening something unknowingly buried in the nerves, preworded softness coming in with the immersion of all that is uncontained. potential beckons best as it remains unparsed. cloudthreads through bluegold, the shrouded wake of a winter sky. we are all together and already dead at some indeterminate, interminal point. it never can be morally or even noetically constrained, differentiation is the law of life, a rumination of swallows. you will know it when they call to you, wanting for it to be through