08.05.2012

08/05/2012

boomerang ditty. Back in downtown DC with my most imminent problem at the forefront of part of my mind and in the background of another. Part of me knows seeing a situation as a problem can be an unnecessary inhibitor and would like for the rest of me to stop being silly. It's all inside of me, though, and that's something that all of me can fully appreciate. I'm at a gay bar. Funny phrase. "A gay bar." Ridiculous, no? We all need hugs. I'm here to finally see a woman, I've been stalking on the internet. I'm certainly not trying to sleep with her so the prospect of meeting her seems to have lost a lot of it's appeal. I really just want to see her and write about what I see. I don't even know her name, just her username on twitter. ChanelEater. I've always wanted to just sit and watch someone I find fascinating as I write so I'm pretty excited about this. People tend to bore me, with the aspect of our humanity that demands us to mold ourselves in the likeness of one another to feel comfortable. I think living with yourself everyday deadens the miracle of being here. Maybe that has something to do with it. People seem to be the most interesting when they are very close or very far away. When they're far away you can watch them without them being uncomfortable and reacting to your presence.. and the same thing about when they're close. It's hard getting close, though; we seem so very scared of one another. I find that I have to constantly remind myself not to be afraid when people notice me noticing them. This girl from college is here. We know each other well enough to recognize each other but not well enough to show each other recognition. I think it's funny that she's going to think I'm gay now. I chastised myself a bit for being scared of that. I'm really out here, my nigga. This woman at the bar has the biggest, roundest, ass I've seen since my month in Atlanta. I've been wanting to write that for a long time because I've been staring at her on and off for about ten sentences now. The timing of it amuses me, though. How it fit in right after I admitted fear of being thought of as homosexual. Sounded like I was trying to prove something, no? I've yet to see ChanelEater. If she doesn't show, I won't be angry. Peeved, irritated; those are better words for what someone might be after going to a place to see someone and not seeing them. Maybe, dejected as well. I won't feel any of those things. I'm surrounded by beautiful women, even if they don't know it, and I have, at least, a page of written thoughts to show for this endeavor. Haha! I just saw her. The fashion show just started and she's a part of it. People seem so uncomfortable on the runway. It's like knowing that the focus is on you, that the focus is on how you look.. it bothers people to know this. ChanelEater made me smile, though. She's got fight in her. Even with her being uncomfortable, she waved her arms around in a way that one wouldn't be able to do if they were paralyzed by fear. She came out again and looked at me for a couple seconds longer than the norm. If she recognizes me then that totally destroys what I'm doing here but I'm still glad I came. She danced the 2nd time she came out and it was wonderful. Her and the other woman who comes out before her seem to be the most... something. Like they fight the fear that we all feel with eyes on us, a fear which usually reduces it's victims to jerky movements and cold stares. When the fear is too much, we hide. You can literally see it happening because we look around to see if our submission to the fear is apparent. That becomes a part of the fear itself.

Well the show is over. I wonder if I should leave. She was beautiful but perhaps even more beautiful was the strength of spirit she showed. It was fucking wonderful to behold. To write about. To jot down in clear thoughts. The other girl was teh one who put the show together, I think. The other one like ChanelEater. She just came out and said hello to me. She reminds me of this girl I knew in college I called Scooby. Scooby was the shit. I'm going to leave now. ChanelEater is out smoking by the door. I wonder if she'll say something. I'm not sure if I want her to.. I will not succumb to the fear of being seen, though. I'm too beautiful for that. And so is everyone else. Until next time, my friends. 

TAPE

Hello all.

It's been a while since I've posted anything huh?

I've been living. Far too many stories to share in the form of a blog post.

Here's what I do want to share.

I'm making new music. I'm very happy about this.

My manager didn't want me to release this. She wanted it professionally mixed and mastered. But things come how they are. Who am I to pretend otherwise? I come as I am. When I'm able to professionally mix and master somefink then that's what it shall be. Until then, they can't keep the genius out of me.

So here's the link.

Without further ado, i present to you..

TAPE, by Swanky Ali

http://manresearchmusic.bandcamp.com/album/tape

Enjoy, my lovers.

Guilt

Guilt
Swanky Ali


How does a man wear his guilt?
Does he wake up every morning and
put it on like a pair of spectacles?
Or does it stay on him, does he wear it
like skin
So that it becomes so much a part of
him that he can't tell where he ends
and where it begins
How does a man wear his guilt?
Does it mark his dreams with distaste
while he sleeps
Must he shrug off his blanket because it
gets too warm for him,
Does it burn like a fever
Or does he get up deep in the night, tip
toeing quickly to the closet to retrieve
more covering because he can hardly
bear the way he feels the chill
How does a man wear his guilt?
It is like a suit jacket, to be worn on special occasions?
No doubt he wears it inside out
Flipping it on his shoulders with an
ostentatious flair
Does he smirk at others as they admire
its righteous sheen
Does he whisper and giggle at those
who would rather keep their guilt
hidden
Does he know that hiding it in plain
sight is safest when pointing at those
who remain blind to themselves?
How does a man wear his guilt?
Does he recognize the choice he has to
discard such a thing
Or more rather set it aflame in his
backyard and dance amongst the
ashes, floating around like fair
weathered faeries in the cool, summer
breeze
Does he know that he hasn't destroyed
a thing?
Does he sit by the fire and marvel at
how something that had once made his
spine shiver and quake with the fear of
lasting damage
Now warms his toes and sends shadows
to play with his scars

hey, you ..

For the record...

I told myself I wouldn't do this.

And now even as I'm doing this, I don't like it.

There's something very needy in discussing a subject that's being heavily discussed, like a baby crying because all those in the nursery are already doing so. You always know in a part of yourself that, no matter how strongly you may feel about the subject, you are discussing it with the hopes that everyone will finally listen to something that sprang from your own, personal universe.

The only possible good in this , is that I may be right in my own analysis of the depths that I have gone. Hopefully, someone will read this and start feeling strange. Start feeling like someone's watching them, peek around, and find that they've discovered a new thought. I don't just hope this, I have to believe it. Without that belief, I would've died 3 years ago of head trauma due to a self-induced drunk stupor.

So, here you go.

This is for the people who live in the world that murdered Trayvon Martin. I'm addressing you all as one, for a reason many of you will not understand.

But you all, all as one, are good at that. It's what makes you so superiorly devious. You have cultivated the ability to keep the secret of your existence from yourself. If you knew how you were living, if you really fucking saw it, you wouldn't live that way. To exist as you do, you must be blind.

But I'm here for you. I'm here. That's what I can do. Like tossing a torch into the mouth of a cavernous, black pit.

Maybe that's not the best phrasing there, many of you are wasting your time concerning yourself with the color of your skin. Don't worry, I'm not coming down on you.

Sometimes, I waste time thinking you can ever waste time.

So you see, I'm in the darkness with you. So maybe the torch metaphor was weak. I think I may have a better one. I'm opening my eyes, just for a second, in a group of people who's eyes are closed, and simply gasping at the wonders of the horrid, visual effects of our actions.

Yes, that's much better.

I see you world.

We got the same ego. I write to you. & you collect enemies.

You reach inside yourself, pull out your antagonist, and begin battle. You cannot see that this antagonist is you.

That's why a boy can get murdered on his way home. Because you never fucking saw him. You saw all the ideas that you've formed about who he could be and who he couldn't possibly be. You've superimposed fear's eyes on your reflection and now you have blood on your hands.

And you've refused to realize that it's your own blood.

And now you blame yourself. You fight yourself more. But it is still you.

All you who still insist your enemy is one who can be physically destroyed.

all the black people who insist white people are their enemy

all the white people who insist black people are their enemy

all the women who insist men are their enemy

all the men who insist women are their enemy

all the young who insist the old are their enemy

all the old who insist the young are their enemy

all the rich who insist the poor are their enemy

all the poor who insist the rich are their enemy

You are mistaken. And by being mistaken, you have become your own worst fear. You have become your true enemy.

You are sick and quite odious in your sickness. And yet even still, I love you. I love you so much. Paradoxically, it's easy to love you. Because, while my eyes were open, I was well and I know you are not your sickness. I smile at what you really are everytime I manage to see myself in a mirror.

Don't you feel like it's foreign to you? To look around and be scared of other beings when that's all they're doing; being.

You're wearing that fear like a coat you forgot you could take off.

& all you have to do is get up.

Get the fuck up and live. Or lay there and continue to destroy yourself.

It's that simple. Simple, and not easy.

Fucktard.

the sun's soil

From Lily:

The painter sighed and thoughtfully stroked his beard

Whilst staring at another portrait of his soul

This one, he thought, almost involuntarily,

this one is different

He knew not where this thought came from

It seemed the only thing his work had in common with itself was

Difference

Usually he didn’t have the patience to look at them once they were finished

And something had been wrong with this one, missing from it

It had been three years since he drunkenly stumbled into his seedy apartment

Merriment and sorrow exchanging soulful kisses within him

Slashing at the canvas like a lover scorned, he had made…

What exactly?

He didn’t know

And yet for a long time

It was incomplete

He had tried everything to finish it

Drugs. Sleep deprivation. More drugs.

Anything that would change his mind state so that he might return to his work

And leave from it, successfully imprinting whatever it is that we’re made up of

Anything that would make him remember

That he painted to make himself real

And one night it came.

One solitary black line across the painting.

And it was finished

He didn’t understand it, felt it rather than knew it

He sighed once more

Something was indeed different about this one and he couldn’t place it

But life was for living and he soon became restless

And as he left his apartment

The black line on his painting became aware of itself

And as it asked itself why it was there

The painting spoke to it, answering,

“How else would I know how beautiful I am?”

The line shuddered and became a wave

But was straightened out immediately

By thoughts that bled art

Like the movement of everything around it.

since i haven't given a verse in a while .

i see,

wombs that i'm growing in

flowing from an everlasting source

that aborts

a different kind of rhythm

wait..listen .

listen to what?

your blood glistening guts?

they call for another and another

watch the hunger make me squeeze from the emptiness

singing in a symphony of difference and similar

with same under it all

the one and the many, as above so below

shut the fuck up and watch how it's insane how you know

how you know who you're dealing with

you listen now but feeling shit

from the day before and the day before

in that way you ignore

the things they doing, misconstruing dreams

so it seems

that reality survives in the seams of your vision

and i would like to take this time to thank you for assisting

in my verse

by going through the purse of your fallacies

and laughing cause you're probably still mad at me ..

ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.

A Sonnet for Alia

Dear Muriel Alia Solomons,

'ere her sacred shadow lies cast down by the groom

The light by which we all should search reflected in the moon

Such seeking is no more than glance and glance where we begin

And I no more than seed of plant that has and knows no end

Oh Alia, dear Alia if all were right and fair

Then love would drip into your eyes befall'n from your hair

And all would sing the tunes that match the walk that is your dance

And silence would become so loud it fills the world with chance

But as it is when darkness falls we mourn when morning's due

Not knowing, nay not feeling, there's no me, no she, no you

The trees have told me secrets, the cold has shown me death

And all these natural wonders find solace in your breath

So my dear, whene'r you feel your heart has turned to stone

Know that life has writ' you this and you're never, ever alone

Best Regards,

Gideon Wyldflower

something pulled me inwards .

Okay, so usually I'd think this kind of thing would come off as creepy, so I wouldn't do it even if I wanted to.. But two things about your profile changed my mind; your name, Experiencer is an amazing name and so brilliantly simple and new, and your hair color.. you've had pink hair once, which makes you awesome. I want you to know that. You're awesome. And those things made me go against my better judgement, and perhaps my fear of how I'd be perceived by you, and send this message. I would certainly like to meet for coffee. friends call me Gideon. You may call me what you wish. And I very much look forward, like a maiden looking out the window of her dragon guarded castle, to hearing from you. Until then, peace & balance. Gideon

Titties

Titties are interesting people. They are the only people that really understand me. Everyone else says, "Hey, you have to believe this or you're stupid." Or, "hey, don't believe this or you're stupid." So much fucking pressure. Fuck all that. Conversations between me and titties are so much more calmer.

Titties: Hey Gideon
Gideon: Hey Titties
Titties: I love you Gideon. Look at how I shine for you. Look at how I make you feel. Feel that? That's love.
Gideon: I love you too Titties.
Titties: I know.
Gideon: -sigh-
Titties: Hey Gideon..
Gideon: Yes, Titties?
Titties: If you want to you can lay on me. I've noticed you staring for a long time now.
Gideon: I know you have titties, it's just... do you think she'd spazz the fuck out if I did?
Titties: Fuck her Gideon.
Gideon: You can't say that Titties, she and you are connected.
Titties: No. You misunderstand me Gideon. Fuck. Her.
Gideon: Oh.
Titties: Shit, she's talking again.
Gideon: I know. She does that a lot. I wonder why.
Titties: She's frightened of how you make her feel. She's frightened of finding herself in your silence.
Gideon: That's a useless feeling.
Titties: I'm sure you can relate though.
Gideon: You're absolutely right, Titties. How else would I know that's a useless feeling?
Titties: -laughs- I love you.
Gideon: I love you, too.
Titties: I love you so much, I'll show you a secret.
Gideon: Really ? Oh man, I'd love that Titties.
Titties: Come close so I can whisper it to you.
Gideon: Yes, Titties?
Titties: -whispers- If you kiss me like you love me, if you really focus on how much you love me while you kiss me, you can get this bitch to shut the fuck up.
Gideon: Aw shit, really?
Titties: Come now Gideon, lies exist in her realm.. not mine.
Gideon: I'm speechless.
Titties: then don't speak . Kiss me Gideon.

Woman

There's this woman who I haven't met yet. And I've been in love with her ever since we started our digital contact.

She told me I've been big headed lately. She said

"It's like you're not looking at yourself anymore & if you are it's only a fraction of what you used to do, you come up with one albeit brilliant but still limited idea, the audience goes mad, your ego is satisfied and your dazzling brain has nothing more to do."

Reading these words threw me into a despair that I couldn't shake. I was angry with myself for allowing this woman to have such an effect on me. My sudden sadness at her words made me angry with myself. Who is she to you? I asked myself. There is only you, I told myself. And then I realized that I was enjoying the despair. It was fitting. It felt like putting on a sweater that I hadn't worn in a while. I went outside for a walk, listening to Ghostpoet, and I relished the role I was playing. It made me smile to be sad. I was the scorned artist for the entire world to see, to gawk at, to dissect.

And then I went into Manhattan and met up with an old friend from high school. Being ensnared in her world, her reality for a minute allowed me to break free of my own sadness. And I did it fluidly. There was no opposition once I realized, without thought, once I really felt that my emotions are outerwear. I shed them and put on others with the ease of actual clothing.

And as I was headed home, I began listening to my mixtape. And my mind started doing something, that it's been avoiding in a long time. It started planning. I've got a running plan for my life right now. It's, as all plans are, frightening, but the fear isn't me anymore. It's outerwear. And it feels appropriate for planning. It'll keep me honest in the wind.

She was absolutely right. And I was absolutely right. This woman's got a hold on me like you wouldn't believe. I feel her underneath me. Not like something separate. I feel her like I feel me underneath me. I feel us underneath me. It makes me aware of everyone else. Only, they don't have her eyes. Her eyes see it as clear as I do. It's not something I can deny. It's not something I want to deny. I feel like I need her. I feel like I don't, I feel like I have her always no matter the circumstance. One doesn't need what one cannot lose. I get scared to tell her something's sometimes. Worried about how she'll understand it, what it will say about me. That used to be my biggest fear growing up, instilled in me by my father; that someone would understand something about me that I've overlooked. That fear used to define me. Now I don't speak to her sometimes simply because my mind is moving too fast, and I don't feel like going back to type it all.. It's going to be great talking to her.

My father told me in high school that I was too stupid to be involved with women. I'm going to ask him what he meant tomorrow.

30 Days, 30 Poemas / V

A Verse

Unforeseen circumstances
Pulling them together
Then
Kept on pulling
Till it's pulling them through one another
Now it's pulling them apart
But the pain of the tension is a necessary beauty mark
Now they know the difference
Now they see the surface unimportant
Or we pray they do
If they pay attention
But maybe that's a heavy fine
When entwined
With what reeks of sorrow
But tomorrow brings
Another different choice
We take it
Or leave it
Seldom in between
Its something for the mind to make complex
Got me kissing on her neck
Skin mimics images in thoughts of what that pussy do
Cells excreting wet in excess
I mean I start to sweat
I
mean my skin is wet
entrapped in heat's hold
memories of tongue's touch
provide the right cold
Unlocking the key
Two cycles rubbing up on infinity's tit
Bare closets and see secrets
Switch

30 Days, 30 Poemas / V

30 Days, 30 Poemas ....

day 4

enjoy the rain for the droughts come soon

i pity the man who complains of monsoons

and he pities i for daring to pity

his laugh at the circle like sounds from the city

they banter, they banter

they jest, they jest

my fever is cooled by the warmth of my chest

and picture the man who cant picture himself

no one knows a thing like the poor man knows wealth

30 Days, 30 Poemas ...

Day 3

A Free in the Day World

Walk outside

nice night

a little chilly but sometimes a breeze feels good

complements the fire of the human spirit nicely

Lily's with me

we have hula hoops

makes me feel like a dance

she gets angry because I have headphones in one ear

i'm chilling, the music is delicious

Walk in the store

deli groceries populate the Bedstuy corners

Guy at the counter says they're from Yemen

Admire their beautiful language

even though it's coupled with suspicious looks

pull money from my pocket

their faces soften

... they are not their confusion

Walk outside with new plastic bags

Mine's containing

honey bun

dollar water

& blueberry poptart

sugar makes hunger temporarily leave my doorstep

tobacco smoke

feels good while you're smoking

not so good afterwards

living in moments

A park

Lily suggests we go in

Good suggestion

Sit down, exchange dreams

She thinks my calm is a phase

I think that's cute

Cops.

Fuck

...they are not their confusion

Medina & Wolfe

their badges shine in the street light's soft glance

Wolfe takes the lead

pointless questions

writes down our names

Gives the usual Babylonian response to mine

A stutter coupled with, "can you spell that?"

I'm used to witnessing this matrimony

asks where it's from

I tell him I was named after Patrice Lumumba

first prime minister of the Congo, murdered by our government

He seems uninterested

I giggle inside

Medina seems disturbed by my stare

I can tell she doesn't know what to make of me

"Perhaps he's trying to intimidate me"

...they are not their confusion

Lily doesn't have I.D.

Wolfe runs my name in the computer

comes back with court summons

and handcuffs for Lily's wrists

She struggles, I feel useless

Lily doesn't dig the situation

She lets Wolfe know that

Wolfe doesn't dig Lilly

I run to the house to get her I.D.

while running, i tell my soul to stop crying

...they are not their confusion

we are our own victims living with drama as our sustenance

death is necessary and we fear it

God, we fear it

as we suck on the dark tit of society

i throw the key in the lock

it's so lonely in this world where money is God

i throw the contents of her bag on the floor

it's so lonely in this world where money is God

i grab her passport and rush out

it's so lonely in this world where money is God

running back now

They let her go after much deliberation

As the cops pull off

I hear my father's laughter in my head

I smile

Just another free in the day world

Just another

free in this cold and lovely world

30 Days, 30 Poemas ..

Day 2:

Woman

why is it you can't see

that my body was made for you

and your beauty made for me

Hey, Hey baby, can I talk to you for a second?

Who taught you that you were meant to be fucked?

Stop.

Denial is useless

I've been watching you watching me watching you

for this entire train ride

You've expected me to approach you

You don't even question why that task falls upon me

Perhaps you secretly prefer it this way

Or do you recognize choice

Timshel

Thou Mayest

Why do you take a backseat in your own sexuality?

Shall I clamber into your open driver's seat?

Why is it that you don't see the value of your own noble steed?

Stop.

Denial is useless

If you knew the price(lessness) of your love

You'd, without hesitation, take the reigns that were made for your grasp

Do you understand what I'm saying to you?

I was meant for your grasp

Woman

I wonder if you know

that I see infinity in the sway of your backside

Your desire resides in the unfounded depths of my chest

And your refusal to be aware

Pains me

Woman

do you know this pain bores into me

and turns my pleasure to boredom

Woman

You're turning my pleasure to boredom

Woman

You are not your fear.

You are not your confusion

Even in my boredom I can see that

Even in my boredom I can see you

Woman

30 Days, 30 Poemas

Day 1:

On the birthdate of my memory

my father gave me a bucket made

equally of the outer layer of his soul,

hardened by the friction of his dreams rubbing against reality,

and the soft, malleable parts within

My mother poured the milk from her breasts

into my father's gift until it was filled to the brim

And they asked me to look inside

I obliged

Gazing into the depths of their present

I laughed at my presence

As my father witnessed my mirth, a shiver went up his spine

and, perhaps without realizing it,

he began to cultivate a solid distrust of me

On the day I began to nurture my perception

my father gave me the gift of his laughter

From that gift sprung the ability to doubt my mind

to listen to that doubt like a musical note

to sit back in the throne, separate of me only because I think so,

and truly be aware

of my Being

I'm going to die soon

and it feels, well...

it feels like the tingling of an orgasm

thank you

i like to masturbate to my compliments.

The Glory

Sometimes a kind of glory lights up the mind of a man. It happens to nearly everyone. You can feel it growing or preparing like a fuse burning toward dynamite. It is a feeling in the stomach, a delight of the nerves, of the forearms. The skin tastes the air, and every deep drawn breath is sweet. It's beginning has the pleasure of a great stretching yawn; it flashes in the brain and the whole world glows outside your eyes. A man may have lived all of his life in the gray, and the land and trees of him dark and somber. The events, even the important ones, may have trooped by faceless and pale. And then -the glory- so that a cricket song sweetens his ears, the smell of the earth rises chanting to his nose, and dappling light under a tree blesses his eyes. Then a man pours outward, a torrent of him, and yet he is not diminished. And I guess a man's importance in the world can be measured by the quality and number of his glories. It is a lonely thing but it relates us to the world. It is the mother of all creativeness, and it sets each man separate from all other men.
I don't know how it will be in the years to come. There are monstrous changes taking place in the world, forces shaping a future whose face we do not know. Some of these forces seem evil to us, perhaps not in themselves but because their tendency is to eliminate other things we hold good. It is true that two men can lift a bigger stone than one man. A group can build automobiles quicker and better than one man, and bread from a huge factory is cheaper and more uniform. When our food and clothing and housing all are born in the complication of mass production, mass method is bound to get into our thinking and to eliminate all other thinking. In our time mass or collective production has entered our economics, our politics, and even our religion, so that some nations have substituted the idea collective for the idea God. This in my time is the danger. There is great tension in the world, tension toward a breaking point and men are unhappy and confused.
At such a time it seems natural and good to me to ask myself these questions. What do I believe in? What must I fight for and what must I fight against?
Our species is the only creative species, and it has only one creative instrument, the individual mind and spirit of a man. Nothing was ever created by two men. There are no good collaborations, whether in music, in art, in poetry, in mathematics, in philosophy. Once the miracle of creation has taken place, the group can build and extend it, but the group never invents anything. The preciousness lies in the lonely mind of a man.
And now the forces marshaled around the concept of the group have declared a war of extermination on that preciousness, the mind of man. By disparagement, by starvation, by repressions, forced direction, and the stunning hammerbows of conditioning, the free, roving mind is being pursued, roped, blunted, drugged. It is a sad suicidal course our species seems to have taken.
And this I believe: that free, exploring mind of the individual human is the most valuable thing in the world. And this I would fight for: the freedom of the mind to take any direction it wishes, undirected. And this I must fight against: any idea, religion, or government which limits or destroys the individual. This is what I am and what I am about. I can understand why a system built on a patter must try to destroy the free mind, for that is one thing which can by inspection destroy such a system. Surely I can understand this, and I hate it and I will fight against it to preserve the one thing that separates us from uncreative beasts. If the glory can be killed, we are lost.





-John Steinbeck, "East of Eden" pg. 130-131

journal entry

Wednesday, August 10th

"judgement is either to confuse someone's unconscious behavior with who they are or to project your own unconsciousness onto another person and mistake that for who they are"

eckhart tolle

i can see myself behind everyone's eyes. i'm back, it feels like. aware of my presence. aware of the fact that it is all mine, that i am all it's. it happened while i was reading tolle, he said dont mistake the unconsciousness of others as who they are. then it all clicked. i wasnt just lacking presence myself. i was confusing the identity of everyone as they confuse it themselves. with that realization, i almost can't stand to look at people, they're so beautiful. it's all me. i feel so connected with them. i am aware that they are aware. while it is true that most have been taught, and continue teaching themselves, to hide from their consciousness, becoming their fears, their judgements, their beliefs, and their lies, it does not change the fact that that is not who they are. my back is straight again. i'm supremely aware of my body. i can feel my stomach full with the food i just ate. my breathing is like music. it's like everyone is born as a spirit, and as they enter this world they begin playing dress-up with grotesque costumes that they confuse ffor self. i am no longer afraid at this moment. they are beautiful. if they dont know it, it's merely because they don't know self. and that's alright, because they are not their confusion. they just... are. everything is. i am. fuck.

is you with me?

still looking for the right sound .

but about two cyphers ago Wildflower just looked around and said fuck it.

we all agreed .

here

http://manresearchmusic.bandcamp.com/album/tales-from-the-oceanglass-dungeon