Sometimes I drink a spasm ov 'narrow, lance-shaped leaves and dense catkins bearing small flowers, many species having tough, pliable twigs or branches used for wickerwork'..
There's a mantra coming by detached and immobile; it doesn't craves for your attention nor does it wishes to, but just exists there.. sits there in the middle of a plain view, sedentary, magmatic and cold deadly pale. Words.. It isn't supposed to point at, either, like aforegiven slips that are drawn into the foreground or crashed into a canvas's jitter. The sounds are alive and suspended as if controlled by forces unknown, probably a puppet or a ninth foot air chamber, transmissive from an ancient cherrywood totem.. The spirit of the sun lives in the intricate frequencies also exhalent in and out of your attention. No blunder to understand what happens, cognize neither the tries i can recall, (in the instance of calling once again), disappearence when the oropendulas sing like hidden vibraphones and as we drift.. drift.. drift... for here swansongs are for fore four papavers and a colorful tide of sounds. Splendour, moxie, primate instinct and vigorish desires. A mescaline linate, a daydream, or nothing at all.
