So you tell me, so you say as if you knew what it is like. As a story begins it never ends. As a line without a beginning or an end. A circle you may think. The ideas are not the new without spiralled culture. Culture shocking is wrong with winging but why then say the one thing you know will hurt the artist? The person who does at least try, he said whining weakly.
When we threw our joints into the black hole light well, or when we made love in an electric storm. Do I really remember that?
Let things lie about themselves. Let me live in the warm stupor of my lack of criticism exorcism without telling me that I'm wrong. Let me lie in this conciousness bath of extremes with battles between art and technology a million miles away, but don't take it too far. Let me write a story without and within my story. It does not have to make sensitivity or serrated feelings in your conditions are all you ever want.
You dreamt of your dreams but you will all despicably destroy some one else's to make yours come true. Why do you do that? Putting all those adverbs in the way.
All men and women, who you say are a separate species, have the righteous, inalienable right to be a right person and you cannot be wrong because you are you. There is no need to create your visions until what you produce as artwork is the same as your dreams because your games will be given to you without price. Again because you are you. There then becomes no such thing as education because what is the point? They will give you everything you need. Your conception of paradise involves no movement. No creation and the word is Om or is found only in plural pent up Pentatuach. Or in a criticism of the holy word of old Nick.
I watch a roadside of grass with attendant dryad's detritus and I wonder from whose livery lives? I watch lighted windows from my train dusk drama and I wonder who has my painting tucked up cosy in their head.
Excerpt from a lighted lighting. Ah Alexion what did you do to me? I can smell my sea in briny becalmed sheets. I can hear my gull rocking on the wind and I can see my distances to the islands of Hy Brassil. That is why we like the west. Because there is heaven.
Little dreams, do you savour the taste. Are these inventions? Do you invent your dreams? Do you create mystical systems? Films from a dream factory, games, interactive.
Are your dreams compositions? Does mind submerged below talk to mind above in weird collision course empathy? Look at the beast, consider Hermetic thought. As above so below.
Is it redundant, as you will probably find, to dream when all around is strange, new redolent and vivid with sight and sound? Of course dreams are evocative. But are they now also the by-products of boredom?
We could suspect that vivid dreaming is one way of perhaps gaining some answers. Producing the unexpected from the consciously uncreative mundane. This would imply external force. Is this necessarily the case? Do the Gods have dreams? But then you cannot blame them.