hey it opened!! you know you’re being a dick when you’re listening to the first song on the first official album by 1975′s ambrosia and you have some introductory work on semiotics open and unread (uncluding barthes’ mythologies) and idk this leprachaun music. who cares. HEY!  king crimson is weird. what else can i mention.  ah yes the memory.  i will continue writing bc this song goes on for a while and very slowly, slowly, slowly goes into the next thing. i, in my technological superiority can click a place on the video to watch also this happened in the past i’m waiting for it to change my patience is short what if i hate it? *the base solo begins* jesus h christ... *the guitar goes* if this isn’t hipster shit then idk what is *drums tweel* don’t you know the idea of what we is?  *hits weed* are you ready  to “enlarge” i do, i want to use different types of words they are just making noises & sounds no now wonder i din’t know they existed before brutalist music made of sycobyphants. pants plants lubriderm astonishment TRANSLATION music thru tubes each a part a moment  in a  !very close to simultaneous!  moment that’s what it can be as well stopping talking kind of want to go to bed everyone on what.cd is obsessed with king crimson and the velvet underground if you’re thinking with rolled eyes to yourself “there are others” please tell me who they are last but not least the black demented lore ofit shit 

Dream: each day is a stripe. each day is a stripe, if. each day is a stripe. each day is a stripe, if. each day is a stripe. each day is a stripe, if. you cannot be as beautiful as a dirt road, anytime. a dirt road at dawn a dirt road below flashlight a dirt road next to flowers a dirt road from the past a dirt road from the past is someone else though i do thank you for making my time pass

no good answer, this is why you must be ‘strategic’ non-categorical and situationally aware AT ALL TIMES

i talk about talk about talk about talking,  god damn i don’t belong in franchises not a bad thing don’t want to be a you-know-what would rather be the knob, warm, supple gold, shiny, leading you to the opening yet not consisting of the opening only merely an association of the opening which is already there please

Preparation for Tomorrow: at some point i got closer to what i ‘meant’ if ___ can be that, meaning not really but maybe something—just something, being actual—something; cook bake write sing strum stretch scream cry; you melodramatic meatball, you are probably, somewhat ‘happy’—must nervousness, be the thing that gets you, after all these years of being alive, and with all the universes of deadness in front of you? i ask this—yet—i know—that—they say—only—now—matters. but isn’t that true—only because of—the greyness/sharp dive?

Preparation for Tomorrow: i liked that one i think, curling slowly out into like ‘incense’ smoke so named; ah, but when it is cold; it is the same thing, only rounder; less insistent, more all-encompassing, for lack of trying; simply being, but ‘born’ strong, comma, come-out-go-back; i am saying weakness is inherent, can it be fought? can sense be—molested?

Preparation for Tomorrow: ‘they’ say to S for Strategize, strategically i put my phone on my knee and ignore them until i am so nauseous i have to throw up in the bathroom; with the tiles; and the heels clicking on the tiles; and the mirrors reflecting your heels that are clicking on the tiles; and the hair curled with a machine plugged into the wall/old-timer; the hard-n-fast traffic; buildings poking upward [[like]]; they are shaped ^ meanwhile think of o hobbit homes; round, is not a not-shape; meanders

Preparation for Tomorrow: obviously we are all nervous; the “class” i am going to, once again; learn learn learn, i whisper to myself in fits of greyed confusion, clouds made out of themselves; it is an attempt; and “worth it” only if we do not die

Preparation for Tomorrow: A blank, empty [so-defined] hangar of leverage, so to say—something abstract, a miniscus, perhaps, when imagined; the sadness of loneliness the sadness of time; the passing of loneliness the passing of time; the infinitude of the sad & infinite moment that passes only to return; the return of the infinitude [[of alone]] that starts from 0 and ends there over and over again; drops of water; on the forehead

softly in the background the dø

I remember staring at you. Your words moved me, you could be seen through them. I waited there while the wind emerged into and out of me, a whimsical & rooted paradox. You were there, and I was staring at you. The idea of leaving lodged in me, wishing for me to act on it and free it from where it moored in purgatory, writhing underground with the rest of potential & unsaid beauty while each day passed in footsteps, sentences and sighs. I remember thinking it would happen sometime. I remember thinking that I did it already, as though paradox can be wrung out and spread over shoulders like fur. The bristles fooled me. And although your words are gone I can stare at you still, when I turn the lights off during daytime, when the lights come on in the middle of the night.